


In Any Universe

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - English Country Inn, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Veterinarians, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Australia, Comfort, England (Country), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, Hotels, Italy, James Bond References, M/M, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), TV News, Weddings, alternate universe - live music nightclub, alternate universe - ninja warriors gym
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-04-12 11:56:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: A series of McDanno one-shot AUs in various themes. Some short and some longer.1. Pizza Place2. Coffee shop3. Flower shop4. Sports TV show5. Fake dating / Pretend relationship / Wedding date6. Werewolf7. Italian restaurant (in Italy)8. Veterinarian/Ranch (in Australia)9. Ninja Warriors Gym10. Nightclub owner Danny / Pianist Steve / Previous relationship11. Actor Steve (007) / Personal Chef Danny12. English Country Inn





	1. Grateful Grace's Pizza

**Author's Note:**

> So... I’m in an AU kind of mood. Coffee shop, obviously, flower shop of course, and a few others I’d like to try. But writing has been a bit sticky lately, so rather than try to do a single longer story for any one of them, I decided I’d try for a bunch of shorter one shots and just have some playful summer fun with it.
> 
> If you happen to have a favorite AU theme you’d like to see me try, let me know and I’ll see what happens.
> 
> Hope everyone’s having a lovely summer so far (and those not there yet, hope you get there soon!).
> 
> Of course the first one has to be pizza.

“Danno! Delivery!”

Danny’s at the register, dealing with customers, but Grace yells again, so he excuses himself to head toward the kitchen to holler back. He practically slams into his daughter who is smiling hugely.

“Can you just take care of it?” He asks her, too tired to be frustrated with her lack of initiative.

“You’re gonna want this one,” she says, eyes twinkling. “ _It’s Steve_.”

She says it like it’s loaded with meaning, like he should know what it means, like he should care.

He’s too tired to care. At least that’s what he wants to believe. He doesn’t quite convince himself. 

She sighs, takes his apron off him, and shoves him towards the back.

“Fine but could you please go take Mrs Guilardi’s order?”

“I don’t need to take Mrs Guilardi’s order,” Grace says. “Green pepper and mushroom, extra onion, and a glass of Chablis.”

“Fine, whatever, okay, I’m going.” That last as she shoves again, and okay he runs a hand through his hair as he heads to the back, the deliveries, and the irritatingly hot guy who delivers them.

Irritatingly, Steve looks especially hot today, lifting crates of canned tomatoes from the back of his truck and stacking them just inside the back door. He looks up when he sees Danny, and the goofy grin that spreads across his face is less irritating than Danny wants it to be.

“Hey, Danno, where’d you want me to put these?”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“Grace said it was okay, she said you like it.”

“Oh did she now.” Some days he wonders why his daughter is so set on his destruction.

Steve just grins and nods.

Danny can’t come up with a reply that seems biting enough, so he just grunts and gestures to where the tomatoes should go. He starts angrily inspecting the cans to make sure there’re un-dented, but they’re all perfect, as all Steve’s products always are, and Danny’s exhausted enough from—he’d say “the week he’s had” but that’d be a lie, he’s always this exhausted. He figures that’s just his life. The point is, he winds up sort of leaning against the crates and just watching as Steve unloads, lifts, carries... those damn perfect muscles flexing this way and that, rippling under the impossibly tight tee shirt Steve insists on always wearing. Danny’d say something, like “Can’t you wear clothes like a normal human being,” but the thing is, Danny likes the show. He likes it kind of a lot, okay? He doesn’t have a whole lot of pleasures in his life, and fuck it, this is one.

Steve finishes the tomatoes and he joins Danny, leaning up against the wall, and looking him over like he’s the drink of water he obviously needs. Pushing off the crates, Danny grabs two bottles out of the fridge across the room, walks back over, holds one out for Steve.

“Thanks buddy,” he says with this grin that looks like he’s got some kind of secret or something, and it makes Danny’s skin feel tight. “You look exhausted, you should take a break.”

Danny can’t help the laugh that escapes. He’s caught off guard, alright? And he’s tired enough his filters have forgotten to engage, so when he says “Yeah a break from my life,” it comes out sounding far more sincerely than he likes.

What seems like actual concern flashes in Steve’s eyes for a moment before it’s replaced with something he almost wants to call hope.

“Take a break with me?” He asks, his hazel eyes going green as he pushes off the wall, not moving closer to Danny but looking like it’s taking an effort not to.

Danny finds he can’t breathe, which makes talking kind of difficult, so he takes a slow drink, watching Steve as he does, and man it’s been a long time. Way too long a time. But there’s something familiar in the way Steve’s watching him. Danny thinks he almost might remember what it’s like to be wanted for something other than his thin crust and amazing sauce. And maybe it’s his lack of sleep, maybe it’s the utterly drained state of his soul, maybe it’s that he still feels the energy of Grace’s push on him, the twinkle in her eye when she said Steve was in the back. Or maybe it’s just because, yeah, he’d like very much to take a break with Steve.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, looking down at the bottle, carefully screwing the top back on.

“Yeah?” Steve asks tentatively, almost like he seems surprised Danny’s said yes.

“Yeah,” he replies. “That’d be nice.”

“Great!” Steve says brightly, putting the lid back on his water. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

And there’s no way, there’s just not any way he could know that’s when Danny’s off tonight. Unless....

But Steve’s out the door and into his truck before Danny can say anything.

“Grace!” Danny bellows, and damn she must have been eavesdropping? Because she opens the door from the front almost instantly.

“Stop yelling Danno, it upsets the customers.”

“I’m not yelling. I’m Italian, this is how I talk. Please do not tell me that you told Steve when I’m off work tonight?”

She shrugs. “He asked.”

“Oh, he asked did he?”

“Uh-huh,” she replies, but she’s grinning and those damn eyes which are totally her mother’s and not Danny’s, they’re far too devious, they’re not just sparkling, they’re damn near glowing. “So, does that mean you said yes?”

And he could lie, he really could, but she’d see right through him, she always does.

“Yes, it means I said yes,” he sighs resignedly, grabbing his apron back from her, and heading to the front, to, you know, do his job.

He doesn’t miss, however, the celebratory “Yessss!” she hisses under her breath as he’s leaving.

She really does have it in for him.

Which she proves beyond a shadow of a doubt when at six thirty she takes his apron from him and whispers “You stink please go shower,” and shoves him towards the stairs up to their small apartment above the restaurant.

He knows he smells, thanks. And okay, he’d rather smell like soap than onions and anchovies for his (oh he can’t quite bring himself to call it a date, but let’s be honest, that’s what it is) dinner with Steve. 

So he showers and changes into one of his few shirts that doesn’t have tomato stains on it, and okay, it’s nice to clean up, and maybe it’s been too long and maybe that’s bad. He just usually doesn’t find it’s worth it.

But when Grace smiles so sweetly at him, as she waves him off, and when Steve bites his lip as Danny climbs into the truck, okay. Maybe it’s a little bit worth it.

“So I thought we’d get some take out and head back to mine so you can really relax.” And he sounds more unsure than Danny’s used to hearing bullheaded and cocky Steve sound, and maybe that pulls at his heart, because, yeah, there’s an awkwardness woven in with going out when you’re not exactly out and it’s not a small town but it feels like it sometimes. And maybe Steve has his own issues about that but Danny’s not gonna judge him for it, he’s just not. Besides. Taking his shoes off and actually putting his feet up sounds pretty close to heaven.

“Yeah,” he says softly, watching Steve’s reaction. “That sounds really nice.”

And okay, it leaves the door open for things other than dinner and conversation and Danny’s not at all sure he’s up for that on a first date but he’s not minding the dangling possibility. It’s been far too long a time since he’s had the pleasure of anything other than his own hand, alright? You try being a single parent and running your own business _and_ having a social life. 

“Is Indian okay?” Steve asks after a bit. “I thought something other than Italian....”

Danny chuckles. “Yeah, sure, sounds great.”

So they end up at a place Steve obviously frequents, and Danny kind of gets the sense he’s practically family, especially the way the woman running the place speaks conspiratorially to him in Hindi. _Especially_ when Steve grins and blushes, and answers back, smiling softly and apologetically at Danny after. 

There’s definitely too much food, but Danny does his best to eat as much as he can because it’s really nice to have food he’s not cooked himself. It’s more than a special treat, it’s... yeah. It’s really nice. 

And so is the wine, which is probably why he tells Steve both of those things.

But what makes his heart thud is the way it makes Steve look like he’s accomplished something he’s only dared dream of. 

Steve’s place is nice, too. Simple, but tidy in an almost military fashion. Then again, Danny’s not exactly the tidiest of people, and Grace gave up long ago aiming for anything other than mildly controlled chaos. Their place isn't dirty, don’t get him wrong. But the busyness of life tends to make tidy cleanly perfection a pipe dream. Trying to fight that just makes him feel worse about himself as a person, so he doesn’t torture himself anymore. 

So it’s nice to be away from home, but in a home. It’s really nice. 

It’s also nice to have a conversation with an adult that doesn’t revolve around pizza toppings and salad dressing. 

Steve asks about his work, but not in the usual “So, you own a pizza parlor” kind of way. He asks about the name.

Which is a story Danny doesn’t ordinarily love telling. He usually makes something up, but for some reason, he wants Steve to know the truth. So he takes a deep breath and sits back, kicking his bare feet under the table, and maybe some part of him hopes Steve’ll do the same.

“I, uh, I used to be a cop. And my partner was named Grace. She, ah. She died the day I found out my wife was pregnant. So I wasn’t at the station when the call came in. Um. If I had been, if Grace hadn’t been killed in the line that day... ah. We both would have been at The Towers when they fell.”

“Shit.” It’s barely a whisper, and Danny gives him a grim smile. 

“So, we named our daughter Grace, and when she was old enough to understand, she would call herself ‘Grateful Grace,’ because without Grace I wouldn’t be here.”

“Jesus, Danny. I’m so sorry about your partner. But I’m with Grace. I’m so glad you weren’t there that day.”

Danny huffs a little laugh at that. He’s had years of therapy but he’s still not okay with having not been there. He knows he never will be. But he focuses on Grace like he always does, and shoves the guilt back down to manageable levels. 

“Can I ask...” Steve starts. Tentative again, and that makes Danny’s heart thud sort of sideways. Kind, thoughtful, gentle Steve is a thing he never let himself imagine, and it’s doing strange things to his insides. “What happened to Grace’s mom?”

“And how’d I wind up making pizza for a living?” Danny smiles.  

Steve gets up and carries their wine glasses over to the coffee table, Danny follows with the bottle. They sit, on opposite ends of the not overly large sofa, turning inward to face each other. Danny sighs, twirling the stem of his glass slowly in one hand, picking at the crease in his pants with the other.

“When Grace was still little, Rachel ran off with some rich guy, and I just couldn’t leave her alone, couldn’t risk her losing both her parents, so I cashed out my pension and dug out my grandma’s recipes and opened up the pizza place, and haven’t really looked back. And yeah, I’m tired all the time, and I’m sore all the time, but I’ve got Grace, and I’ve had time with her, you know? And that’s been worth everything.”

“But she’s going to college in the fall?” Steve prompts.

Danny huffs out a breath that’s too close to a sob for his own comfort. “Yeah. She is.”

“So you can... you’ll have some time. For yourself.”

And the words are the obvious ones, he supposes, but they’re nearly the very words Grace uses when she talks about how Danny needs a life, needs someone in his life, and it just wouldn’t surprise him at all.

“Did she put you up to this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

Steve sighs, sets his glass down. “Look, I like you, I think you like me, you’re about to have a lot more free time in your life, I have more than enough in mine... so, yeah, maybe I mentioned that to her and she maybe thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Danny chuckles softly. If he wanted to, if some part of him wanted to be annoyed, feel maybe a little pressured, he easily could bristle at that. But. Well honestly he just doesn’t. And maybe it’s nice, alright? To sit here on this comfy sofa that’s never been used as a trampoline, in a room that’s almost freakishly tidy, that’s been cleaned by someone other than himself, to sit here and have a glass of wine. Real wine, wine that someone’s chosen because they like it and not because it’s what his customers prefer with their pies.... Yeah, all of it is really kind of a lot nice.

So he shrugs, and maybe that’s too typical an Italian gesture, so sue him. Steve doesn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, okay, that would be nice.”

“Good,” Steve replies softly, and reaches out to refill Danny’s glass. “I’m glad.”

“What, aren’t you gonna say something like ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship’ or something?”

“Ummm? I dunno, should I?”

“Seriously? You don’t get that reference?”

“Uhh, no?”

“Oh, that is it, you’re coming over for Wednesday movie night.”

And if he thinks Steve covers a sly grin with a dive in for more wine, Danny doesn’t say anything, but it occurs to him that his daughter knows all his buttons and that would have been a sure bet, to get Danny to take action—prove a certain lack of knowledge about movie references—because if there’s one thing he and Grace are solid in, it’s their movie quotes.

“Sounds like fun,” Steve says, when he comes up for air after a long slow sip of wine. “I’d love it.”

“Good,” Danny says, and surprises himself by realizing he means it.

They fall to talking about sports and music, and they disagree on just about everything but somehow it works. Somehow it seems right, and not something negative. 

And when Danny starts to yawn, Steve insists on getting him home right away. “You really should take better care of yourself, Danno,” he says, as his hand settles softly at the small of Danny’s back as he walks him to the truck. 

“That’s what Grace says,” Danny mutters sleepily. 

“She’s a smart one, that kid of yours,” Steve replies, and they drive back to Danny’s place in a companionable silence. 

“Thank you, for tonight,” Danny says, hesitating with his hand on the door. “I had a really nice time.”

“I’m glad,” Steve replies. And he doesn’t look like he’s gonna make a move on Danny, and there’s part of him that’s grateful for that, but at the same time. He really wants to be kissed. So he lets go the door handle and he turns in his seat to face Steve. 

Steve grins, and presses his lips together, eyeing Danny’s as he does, and that’s enough of a sign for him, so Danny leans forward, captures Steve’s lips with his own, lets Steve fall a little bit into it, nipping softly before he draws back with a sheepish grin. 

“Wednesday at eight. You bring the wine.” And with another quick press of the lips, Danny climbs down from the truck and walks to the back door of the restaurant without looking back. When he gets to the door and turns to wave, he sees Steve, bottom lip between his teeth, gaze slightly glassy, and he grins. 

Steve smiles back, and waves before driving slowly off, and Danny takes a moment to gather himself before heading inside. 

Grace is waiting for him, homework balanced on her lap, curled on the sofa with her headphones on. He hears laundry running in the background, and he stands there watching her thinking missing her will be a physical ache nothing will soothe, and he thinks, yeah, having someone to help fill his time is going to be a good idea. 

She sees him, takes her headphones off, and waits, expectantly, for his report. 

“He’s coming for movie night,” he says, and he hears it before she reacts. He sounds soppy and sweet and he wants to cringe, but he just doesn’t.

“Oh my god you kissed him, didn’t you.”

“I am not discussing that with you.”

“You ask me if I kiss my dates!”

“I’m your father, I worry.”

“Well, I worry too, Danno.”

“Yes, fine, we kissed, now shut up and finish your homework and thank you for doing laundry.”

“Love you Danno.”

“Love you too, Monkey.”

He closes himself in his room and allows himself a moment to relive the kiss. A nice long moment. He’s working up the energy to get ready for bed when his phone buzzes with a text. 

_I had a really great time tonight. Can’t wait for Wednesday. Red or white?_

Danny smiles down at his phone for a while, thinking. Usually they just do pizza on Wednesdays but he thinks he’ll do something special, maybe a seafood pasta. Or lemon cream cannelloni. 

 _White. And me too_.

Steve sends back a smile and a wine emoji, and Danny grins all the way through getting ready for bed, and he’s still smiling when Grace peeks in to say goodnight. 

“Oh you are a goner, aren’t you?” She says, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. 

“Shush now,” Danny says. But he knows she’s right. He absolutely is. And he doesn’t mind in the least. 


	2. Aloha Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I’m so excited you guys are enjoying my little summer plan. I’m loving the suggestions, keep ‘em coming. They’re getting my idea juices flowing in new and fun directions, and I love it. Okay. I’ve wanted to write this story for so long.... It started with a picture I found ages ago of some coffee art....

Danny stands outside in the rain, looking in at the brightly colored, too-well-lit interior. The pictures of surfers on the walls, pineapple themed decorations. All of it usually makes him gag, and walk the extra two blocks to the big chain coffee shop that’s out of his way, over-priced, and always has too long a line.

Somehow today, in the chilly gloom, he just doesn’t feel like it. Somehow, today surfers and pineapples sound almost comforting. So he takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

He’s met with a comforting warmth that almost fits the beachy photographs. The smell of freshly ground coffee fills the air, the soft sounds of Hawaiian guitar float lightly in the background. And then he’s met with the real reason Danny never comes in here.

The owner. All six-feet-something of him. Tan and glowing despite the gloomy weather, smiling like life really is a beach, and chatting easily with a customer who turns towards Danny, looking for all the world as though her morning coffee actually has the effect that coffee in coffee commercials does.

He steps into the spot she’s vacated at the wide marble-top counter, and finds himself under the suddenly too intense scrutiny of the man Danny’s tried very hard _not_ to have his eye on.

“I wondered if you were ever gonna come in,” drawls the voice belonging to said man. And dammit, his voice is even more compelling than his appearance. Or maybe it’s just the drops of rain running down his back that make Danny shiver.

“I’ll have a... oh for godsake, a ‘big kahuna,’ really?”

“You got something against Hawaii?”

“Yes. I’ll have a _large_ hazelnut mocha. No whip.”

“If you like hazelnut, you should really try the macadamia. It’s like hazelnut only better.”

“Lemme guess. Macadamia nuts are from Hawaii.”

“They sure are, buddy! That’s why they’re so good.”

“Then no thank you.”

“Suit yourself, but you don’t know what you’re missing!”

And he turns, thank god, to make the mocha. Which means Danny has a moment to catch his breath, still his racing heart. It’s just coffee, for fucksake. So why does he feel like he’s doing something bold and daring?

Maybe it’s to do with the skill with which the big goof behind the counter works the espresso machine. The flip of the wrist as he taps the grind down, the turn of his strong, capable hand on the steamer dial, or the little flourish as he tops up the cup. There’s a little move with a shaker of chocolate shavings at the end, and Danny’s presented with his drink, complete with a stenciled image of a pineapple on top.

“Seriously?”

“What, don’t you like pineapples either?”

“Not in my coffee.”

“It’s just chocolate, relax.”

Danny sighs and hands over some cash.

“Would you like an Ohana Coffee Club Card?”

“An o-what now?”

“Ohana. It means ‘family’ in Hawaiian. It’s my loyalty rewards program.”

“If there’s a reward, is it really loyalty? Wouldn’t that be more like bribery?”

“You’re a bright spot of sunshine, aren’t you.”

“Can I please just pay for my coffee and go?”

“You really could use some aloha, buddy.”

But the guy hands back Danny’s change, and he includes a rewards card anyway.

“Thanks,” mutters Danny as he drops the change in the tips jar, which is labeled, annoyingly, as _Surf Funds_.

“Mahalo,” annoyingly hot barista man calls as Danny walks back out to the cold rain and gloom.

But the really annoying thing is the coffee is damn good. It’s way better than the coffee from that Other Place, and maybe it’s the chocolate? It tastes slightly different, or maybe it’s the syrup, which he thinks is less sweet, or maybe it’s that grass fed milk the sign touted with the picture of the rainbow colored cow. Maybe it’s the espresso itself. That batch-roasted-by-hand nonsense.

Or, okay. Maybe it has something to do with the gorgeous dork who made the coffee.

You know, the one Danny can’t stop thinking about.

The one who gave Danny not one but two pineapple stamps on his loyalty card.

Bribery indeed.

But it’s cold and rainy again the next morning, and Danny’s even grumpier, so he finds himself shaking drops of rain off his umbrella in the vestibule of the Annoying Hawaiian Coffee Shop. And okay, maybe it’s a little earlier than usual, which gives him time to sit and look over the headlines of the newspaper that’s been left at the end of the counter where he slides onto the bar stool, hanging his umbrella on the edge of the marble top.

There are two other people in line, but they just get plain coffee, so he’s only a couple paragraphs deep in an article about the disastrous state of the world when Annoyingly Hot Barista Man sidles over, leaning all stupidly seductively over the counter at Danny, grinning like he’s the best thing that’s happened all morning.

“How are you this cheerful at this hour and in this weather?”

“I love my job. And my coffee is really good.”

Danny grunts noncommittally, but puts the paper down.

“Same?” Coffee Moron asks.

He feels his eyes narrow in response. But probably it doesn’t really mean anything that he remembers. Probably it’s the only thing his tiny brain is capable of remembering. Hawaiian produce and people’s coffee orders.

“Yeah,” Danny replies, then feels bad and adds “Please.”

“Sure thing,” comes the joyful reply, and with a slap of his hand on the counter, he’s off, making Danny’s mocha. And damn. The view's even better from the side. He can really appreciate the skill involved in doing this the old fashioned way, rather than that newfangled, mechanized, remove-as-many-variables-as-possible for a mass-produced-cup-of-coffee way that Other Place uses.

By the time the chocolate stenciled pineapple decorated drink is sitting in front of him, Danny’s a little bit afraid he’s looking as heated as he’s feeling.

Which only escalates when he goes to hand over his cash and the stupid jerk waves it off, saying “I’m just glad you came back,” and heads to the register to take the next customer’s order.

Which isn’t at all why he’s back the next day. No, it’s just that he’s short on time, he’s got an early meeting, and the Other Place just takes too long.

And okay maybe it’s not just the taste of the stupidly sunny coffee that’s growing on him. Maybe he likes the way his belly flutters when the goofy surfer dude grins sideways at him.

Dammit.

And he’s back the day after because he’s way too early and if he shows up at the office too soon they’ll get the wrong idea and start thinking he actually cares about his job, so he really has little choice but to sit at the end of the counter and let Steve—the moron has a name after all—flirt with him between customers. Because there’s little doubt in his mind now that, yes, Steve is friendly with everyone, but he is especially friendly with Danny, and he’s not had that in a long time, and he could use a bright spot in his otherwise bleak life, thanks. 

If it’s a trend that continues, well. It’s something to keep him distracted from how awful the rest of his life is.

“So what’re you gonna do with Grace this weekend?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

Steve just grins. “You should take her to the zoo. They have this great adventure playground thing. My sister and I loved it when we were kids. It’ll give you cool dad points.”

Danny still doesn’t understand how Steve’s learned so much about him in such a short time. Like how he feels totally inadequate as a father now that his little girl has rich asshole Step Stan in her life. Now Danny’s got stupid boring office work instead of being a cop because Rachel got a lawyer who convinced a judge Danny was a threat to her safety because he was a little reckless in the line of work because sometimes that’s what you have to do if you want to make a difference in this fucked up world.

But Danny’s desperate for Cool Dad Points, so he does take Grace to the zoo the next day. And after, when she wants a treat, he takes her to the coffeehouse because he knows how _single dad with young daughter_ plays in the whole getting-a-date world. And yes, he’s using his daughter as capital. Sue him. He hasn’t had a date since the divorce, okay? And meeting people is not easy.

Besides, he might have mentioned Steve to Grace. And she might have insisted.

Danny’s plan might backfire a bit on him though, because seeing Steve interact with Grace melts his stone cold heart, and he’s just so screwed now.

Steve’s got Grace behind the counter, standing on a stool, teaching her to tap the espresso just perfectly. And he’s whispering conspiratorially with her, and Danny knows it’s about him, because they look at him and giggle. And Grace high fives Steve, and Danny’s just done.

They bring him his coffee, and there’s no pineapple this time, this time it’s a heart, and Danny’s gonna pretend that’s because Steve let Grace pick the stencil. But they're clearly waiting for him to taste it.

“What did you do?” He asks, cautiously.

“Just try it Danno. You’ll love it.”

And he won’t deny her. She knows it, and now Steve knows it too. So he takes a sip... and that’s not hazelnut, that’s....

“You put macadamia in it.”

“Isn’t it good, Danno?”

And the really, really annoying thing is, it really is. It’s really good. It’s better than hazelnut good. And oh it’s gonna hurt to admit that.

So he takes another sip. And he grins over at Grace.

“Yeah, Monkey, it really is.”

And he absolutely does not miss the stupid huge grin on Steve’s face.

He also doesn’t miss when Grace pulls on Steve’s sleeve and whispers in his ear. Or when Steve bites his lip, but nods, and when he looks up at Danny, Danny’s heart just stops. Because it’s all written in Steve’s eyes. Everything.

“Grace and I were hoping I could take you out to pizza for dinner. There’s this great place I know that does an awesome Hawaiian pizza—”

“They put pineapple on it, Danno! Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

And Danny laughs. “That’s not pizza, that’s....”

But Grace is looking up at him with those big, round eyes of hers, and Steve’s nearly copying the gesture, and fuck. Danny’s heart just can’t take it.

“Yeah, alright, that sounds like fun.”

And dammit, but the smiles that earns him are worth picking pieces of pineapple off his pizza.

It’s even more worth it when Steve steals the pineapple from Danny’s plate, making Grace giggle, and making Danny’s heart go even softer.

And when Grace invites Steve back to Danny’s apartment to watch a movie, and Steve looks over at Danny for confirmation, Danny reflexively licks his lips, and Steve shivers.

Grace gets them settled on the sofa, herself in the middle, and presses play on the latest animated talking animal family film, and Steve really gets into it, but honestly Danny barely notices the movie. He’s so caught up in how easily this man has fit himself in to Danny’s life. It’s like he’s been there all along, waiting for him. And there’s just no doubt in anything Steve does, and maybe that’s what floods into Danny, like Steve’s certainty is catching, like it washes over him on some kind of confidence and rightness tidal wave, and when Danny carries a sleeping Grace to her bed, and after kissing her forehead turns and sees Steve standing there watching him like this is everything he’s ever wanted, Danny thinks it’s that wave that pushes him to it, because he just walks right over and pulls Steve into a kiss like it’s the only thing that matters.

When they pull apart, their breathing ragged, Danny’s heart thudding in his ears, Steve whispers: “I told you the macadamia was good.” And Danny chuckles softly.

“Shut up and kiss me again you idiot.”

And Steve does.


	3. RGD Florals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for themes of loss of loved ones.

He’s seen the new guy walk past his storefront each day this week. Knows who he is because, okay, he's gone to the always-open door to look after him, see where he goes. Not because he’s a busybody or anything, just, you know, idle curiosity. Point is, he figured out really easily it was Steve of “Steve’s Adventure Travels” that just moved in across the street, upstairs from Lou’s Cafe, where the old accountant’s office had been.

He sure looks the part. Tall, muscular, tan, with a strut that speaks to the kind of confidence that leads a person to name their business after themselves, let alone have an “adventure travel” business in the first place. Whatever that means.

So the thing is, Danny’s prepared, come that Monday morning, when Steve walks into his shop, instead of walking by. It never takes the new ones much more than a week before they do. Never more than one week walking past him before something clicks and they think “huh, better get some flowers from the flower shop, oh and maybe they’ll put out my business cards.”

And he always does. He’s small business minded like that, and he likes to help the other entrepreneurs on their little street. Lou, for example, gets his table flowers from Danny’s shop. In trade for lunch once a week. It works, everyone benefits, and they’ve got a nice thing going.

So when Steve grins crookedly at the arrangement Danny’s been building in his head, and had already put together that morning—just, you know, in case—he feels pleased. Maybe more than usually pleased, that Steve seems so impressed.

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I was going to ask for,” he says, turning the vase of orchids, ginger, anthuriums, and palm fronds. “Can you do something like that for me each Monday?”

Danny nods. “Just tropical? Or do you do anything besides jungles?”

Steve chuckles and shifts his stance, almost like he’s gone automatically into parade rest to give his report. Of course he’d be ex-military. Danny should have seen that coming.

“Mostly jungles. Deserts sometimes. Mountains occasionally. Oceans from time to time.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “Well you could always have cactus. They’re not as welcoming of course, and mountain wildflowers don’t last well as cut flowers, and kelp probably isn’t the nicest bouquet, so maybe we’ll just stick with tropical.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve says, clearly amused, and they work out a budget and schedule that suits them both.

“So, have you tried Lou’s fabulous sandwiches yet?” Danny asks when they’re done and he’s tucking the arrangement into a box for Steve to carry it up to his office.

“Uhh, not yet. Is there... is there always so much yelling?”

Danny laughs. “He’s from Chicago,” he says, as though that explains it. “He’s utterly harmless. His sandwiches really are fantastic, and he serves his brother's pastries for dessert. They’re the best in town, but that’s where most of the yelling comes from. Siblings, you know.”

Steve grins. “Alright then, I’ll give it a try. You go there often?”

“Yeah,” Danny replies softly, feeling suddenly a little exposed, because that sounded like a line and Danny realizes he kind of wants it to be.

“Great!” Steve says brightly, grinning like a loon. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

And Danny hopes it’s not completely obvious, his heart leaping joyfully at the thought. He thinks probably it is.

  
“So? Did you meet him?”

“Who?”

“Steve! The new guy.”

He knows she’s rolled her eyes at him, he can hear it in her tone.

“How’d you know he’d started?”

“Samantha told me. Said he’s cute. Is he cute?”

Danny really very much does not appreciate that tone in his daughter’s voice, thank you very much. The one that says  _please be interested in someone and get a life before you die of loneliness_.

“What makes you think...” but he can’t find a way to finish that sentence that doesn’t sound hopelessly defensive. “Fine, yes, okay, he’s cute. Happy?”

“You tell me.”

Danny sighs. “We kind of said we’d maybe meet up for lunch sometime.”

“At Lou’s?”

“Of course at Lou’s.”

“Excellent, then I’ll get details from Sam.”

And Danny bristles at that just a little. “What, don’t you trust me to tell you how it goes?”

“Nope,” she replies, as she sets the table for dinner, kissing her dad on the head as she shoos him off to wash his hands.

  
It’s Wednesday before he makes it over to Lou’s for lunch. But when he walks in, he sees Steve already at a table, and he waves Danny over with a grin.

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he says as Danny sits. Sam brings Danny his usual iced tea, and he hopes the look he gives her says  _Don’t you dare tell Grace before I do_. The look she gives back indicates his meaning is clear, and she’s no intention of following it. Somewhere, Danny thinks, he and Lou went very wrong, raising their daughters.

“So did you order yet?” Danny asks. 

Sam hasn’t brought him a menu, she won’t even ask what he wants. Steve, however, is still reading the menu, and maybe it’s Danny’s wishful thinking but he looks like he wants Danny’s advice.

“Yesterday I just told Samantha to bring me the most popular sandwich. Which was nice.”

“Yep, the Chicago Club. It’s a classic. But?”

“I thought I’d like to try yours.”

“Can’t you guess?” Danny asks. And maybe he hides it too well. The Jersey doesn’t slip into his accent too much anymore except when he’s tired, or angry, or talking on the phone with anyone back home. He lets some slip in as he says: “Or d’you need me to spell it out.”

Steve grins. “Ah. Jersey, I should have known.”

“If you play your cards right, Lou’ll probably name a sandwich after where you’re from....” Yes, he’s angling for details, but he won’t push.

Steve chuckles. “I’m not sure how popular a Spam and pineapple sandwich would be here.”

“Oh god, Hawaii?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“Just... all that sunshine and tropical fruit.”

Steve laughs. “You don’t seem to mind the flowers,” he points out. 

And the thing is, it’s true. Danny actually likes working with tropicals. They’re less prickly than roses, less messy than daisies and mums, and they last really well so people are always very impressed and willing to pay top dollar for them.

He shrugs. “They’re nice to work with.”

Steve grins kind of soppily at him, and Danny tilts his head quizzically. 

“What?”

“I dunno. You don’t strike me as someone who would enjoy working with flowers.”

Danny huffs a slightly pained laugh and sighs. “I’m not. I wasn’t. It’s a long story.”

“Ah,” Steve says easily. “For another time, then. So I’ll try the Jersey Sub?”

Danny smiles gratefully. “You won’t regret it.”

  
They wind up meeting regularly for lunch on Wednesdays. And Steve works his way through the menu, and winds up back with the Jersey Sub as his favorite, and don’t think that doesn’t delight Danny, at least a little. 

It also delights Danny that his business picks up, with seemingly all of Steve’s customers starting to regularly order flowers from him. Thematic bouquets, like Steve’s usual ginger-orchid-anthurium combo, though with a variance of colors and styles. 

Sometimes Danny plays with the design of Steve’s weekly arrangement, going more modern and minimal, sometimes more lush and classic, and each time Steve comments on it, each time he asks how the design came about. And each time Danny prevaricates. Because the truth is, they just kind of happen. He puts music on each Monday morning while he sips his coffee, he gazes into the refrigerator case until shapes and colors and textures call to him, and half the time he’s not aware of what he’s doing till he’s done. 

And he’s made his peace with that. It’s been part of him for so long. But it’s still not something he’s really easy talking about. Because it seems so odd. And because of how it all started. But he doesn’t like to think about that. And Steve hasn’t pushed, hasn’t brought up how he got into it in the first place. 

And things kind of float along like that, until one Friday, Steve comes in, late in the evening, as Danny’s about to close up. And that’s not something he’s done. Their interactions have been exclusively Monday morning flower pick-ups and Wednesday lunches. So right away, Danny’s hackles are up. 

Steve hesitates, fiddling with the handle of the dustpan Danny’s left sitting while he pauses his clean up to focus on Steve—whether he’s here in a customer role, or something else, Danny always stops his work to focus on his customers.

“Can you maybe do sunflowers next week?” Steve finally asks. “Or something that says Montana?”

“Yeah, sure, any special reason?”

“It’s, ah, it’s the anniversary of... of something... anyhow, yeah, that’d be great.”

“Not a problem,” Danny says sincerely. 

And he waits, thinking maybe there will be more, but there’s not, and Steve sighs, and turns to go, throwing a soft “Have a good weekend” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

  
Come Monday, he’s down in the shop extra early, wanting—no, needing—to get it just right. He starts and stops and starts over several times. But it’s hard, not knowing exactly what it’s the anniversary of. Not something happy, that much was clear from the sound of Steve’s voice. Finally Danny figures out something that feels right, and he sets it aside before starting on his other morning orders. 

By the time Steve comes in, much later than usual, and minus his signature swagger, Danny’s cleared out all his other work for the day, which he’s grateful for, as Steve stands almost dejected, fingering the arrangement gently. 

“The sunflowers I know, but what’re the rest of these?”

“The greenery’s bear grass,” Danny explains, pointing out the thin loops of green throughout. “It grows in Montana. The, uh, these white bits here, that’s Veronica, it’s the closest I could get to the flowers of the bear grass—they’re too hard to get as a flower. The purple spiky ones are meant to be thistles, they’d grow wild up there too, but, uh... not easy as a cut flower. And then some chamomile, just to soften it, and. Um. Well, it seemed like maybe it wasn’t the happiest of anniversaries, so. Chamomile is comforting.”

Steve’s been looking down the whole time, watching Danny’s hands as he points out the flowers, not meeting his eyes. He looks up now, and Danny sees his eyes are red and wet.

“It’s prefect, Danny. Thank you.”

“Do you, um. I mean, if you need to talk? Or maybe... if you want to come over for a drink after work? I just live upstairs....”

A very slow, sad, hesitant smile half forms on Steve’s lips. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he says softly. “Thanks for these, just add it to my tab, and don’t under charge me okay?”

“Sure, of course,” Danny replies, and watches with a twist in his stomach as Steve walks slowly over to his office. 

  
He’s gotten a last minute order for the evening when Steve shows up just as he’d usually be closing. 

“Oh, man, I’m so sorry, I have to get this done. It’ll only take me about half an hour more I hope? If you wanna come back. Or we could reschedule.”

Steve hesitates, but there’s this odd sparkle in his eyes that makes Danny’s chest feel weird.

“Could... I mean, would it be okay...? Could I watch you work?”

“That wouldn’t be boring?”

“I’d... I’d really like to, if that’s okay.”

Danny chuckles. “Sure, yeah. That’d be fine. I tend to zone out, so it might get dull.”

“I don’t think—yeah, no, I’ll be fine.”

Danny shrugs as if to say  _It’s your time to waste_ , but he pours Steve a coffee and gets back to work.

At first it’s a little awkward, with Steve watching him. But he puts on his music, and he takes a sip of his coffee, and he lets the flowers tell him what to do. Maybe that sounds dumb, but it’s how he was taught, and it’s never once failed him yet.  _He’s_  failed it. Been in a controlling mood and tried to make something work that just wasn’t right. But when he listens. Lets the followers tell their story, well. He’s got a drawer full of awards and letters of praise to show it’s a strategy that works. 

He’s gone so much into himself, to his work, that he’s almost forgotten Steve’s there. But when he finishes and looks up, he sees Steve watching him, and the expression on his face goes straight to Danny’s gut. Which is... that’s a feeling he’s not had in a very long time. He pushes the thought aside and gets the arrangements ready for delivery, and by the time his driver shows up, he’s ready for her. 

“Who’s the hottie in the work room?” Tani asks as she and Danny load the flowers.

Danny sputters, and she slaps him on the back. “That’s the Adventure Travel guy,” Danny hisses, willing her to shut up and mind her own business, which is dumb of him. Since when has Tani Rey ever done either of those things?

“Get ’im tiger,” she yells as she pulls away, leaving Danny standing in the alley trying very hard not to flip her off.

When he heads back inside, he sees Steve, tidying up his rather substantial mess. He leans against the door and watches. Sometimes Grace helps him clean up, but mostly it’s left to him, and there’s something symbolic about that, he’s always thought. Being the only one to clean up the messes you make. It’s been too long since he’s had someone to share that with. And of course that reminds him of how long it’s been since he’s had someone to share the other stuff with.

“I could really use something stronger than coffee,” he says, maybe a little more gravelly sounding than he’d like, walking towards the door to the above-shop residence. “Leave the mess, I’ll clean it up in the morning.”

He hears a sound he almost wants to call a whimper from somewhere deep in Steve’s chest, and then he feels him following close behind.

Danny grabs the bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and tosses one of those big round cocktail ice ball things into each glass, then leads the way through to the living room.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” he says, regretting instantly just how cliché that sounds. But Steve grins appreciatively, and sits closer than he needs to on the long sofa.

“You have a daughter, right?”

Danny smiles. “Grace, yeah, she’s over at Lou’s tonight. She and Samantha grew up together, so they’re basically like sisters.”

Steve holds out his glass to toast Danny. “To absent loved ones,” he says, holding his gaze heavily.

They sit and sip for a bit in a silence that’s surprisingly comfortable, then Danny dares to push.

“Who were the flowers for?”

Steve sighs. Swirls the ice in his glass, and leans back. “Joe. My... well, _mentor_ doesn’t even come close to it. He was a second dad to me, but more than my own dad because he was there for more of my life, more of my adult life anyway. He trained me. Navy. He was my commanding officer, he was my friend. And it’s my fault he’s dead.” He pauses and swallows. “Sorry, that was a bit much all at once.”

“No,” Danny says gently, reaching a hand out and laying it on Steve’s arm. “I get it. It’s okay. I asked.”

“I wasn’t there when he needed me, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. The, ah. Adventure travel thing. It was going to be our retirement together. It started as a joke. We’d be out on an op, in the jungle, miserable, and we’d joke about how those crazy city business people would probably pay money to be out somewhere like that, getting muddy and bitten by bugs and we’d say ‘That’s how we’ll make our fortune.’ So when he died and left me his ranch in Montana, his will stipulated I had to sell it and start ‘Steve’s Adventure Travels.’ I only have to do it for a year, but I think it was his way of making sure I didn’t go off the deep end once he was gone.”

“That’s really kind of sweet,” Danny says as he refills their glasses. “So is it working?”

Steve’s eyes collide with his in a flash of hazel and green and heat.

“I think maybe it is,” he says. 

“Should we order some food?” Danny asks when he can breathe again, because he’s suddenly very aware that two glasses of whiskey on an empty stomach and this much sexual tension filling the room is a one way ticket to disaster town. 

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

So they get Thai food delivered and they eat it sitting on the floor, backs against the sofa, take out right from the containers, spread on the coffee table in front of them, sharing bites of each other’s favorite dishes, and telling silly stories from random parts of their lives, and they switch to wine which is probably safer, but maybe it’s too late anyway, because they end up making out right there, right on the floor in the living room, with boxes of half eaten take out cooling on the table, the neon from the bar down the street flickering on the walls. 

Just before they go too far they pull back. They sit, watching each other, putting most of their energy, Danny’s certain, into not just going the rest of the way right there, right now. 

“I’m gonna, I’m gonna put the food away,” Danny says, finally, and he stands and starts gathering up the containers, and Steve helps him, which probably doesn’t help because then they’re just making out in the kitchen, and standing—with counters to press up against—is just making it more and more difficult for Danny not to point out his bed’s only a few feet away. 

“How about I help you clean up downstairs,” Steve offers, having taken one step back from Danny, so at least they’re not plastered against each other and in danger of rutting like teenagers. “I’ll feel guilty otherwise, thinking of you having to clear up in the morning.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks,” Danny agrees. And maybe he hopes the physical labor will help burn off some of the excess energy flaring between them. 

Which it does, but then they wind up sitting on the work table, drinking cold leftover coffee, fiddling with each other’s hands, and talking about flowers, and how Danny ended up owning a flower shop.

“That thing you said about chamomile being comforting. Is there more like that? This flower does that, and so on? I mean, I’ve heard of flower meanings—yellow roses for friendship, that sort of thing. But actual uses?” He sounds... well, a lot like Danny thinks he probably did when he learned. Skeptical but wanting it to be true.

“Sure, I mean. Smells are really powerful. Here,” he climbs down from the table and gets out one of his favorite roses. A peach colored one, tinged brighter red at the edges. He hands it to Steve. “Breathe in with your mouth open, like you’re tasting wine.”

“Wow, that... it smells like peaches!”

“Yeah, most people don’t know real roses smell so good. They’re used to florist’s roses, which are bred for long straight stems. You lose a lot when you do that though. Usually what you lose is the fragrance.”

He gets out another, a white rose with a more classic “rose” scent. Steve smiles as he smells it. “That’s amazing.” 

“Rose is an antidepressant. You know how they say being given flowers boosts your mood for like seven days? It can do more than that if it’s the right flowers.”

“So how’d you learn all that? Lou said you used to be a cop, like him.”

Danny sighs, leans against the counter-height work table, next to Steve who’s still sitting on it. “I’d had a fight with my wife. All we did anymore was fight, but it had gotten really bad. I’d been shot, again. And Grace had just been born, and Rachel said she couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take me being reckless and putting my life on the line when I had a family to raise.” 

He chokes a little on the memory, unused to talking about it, though somehow it’s not as hard as it used to be. And when Steve puts his hand on Danny’s shoulder, Danny leans into the touch, as though it might make it easier, saying the next bit out loud. 

And the weird thing is, it does. 

“She was driving to pick Grace up from my mom’s. I was supposed to have done it, but I was working late, so she went, but there was a storm. A real bad one. She probably didn’t even see the tree, probably didn’t notice. I would have. I know that road like the back of my hand. But she didn’t and she was mad at me. And rushing to get Grace. And she didn’t see it in time to stop.” 

Steve squeezes the hand on Danny’s shoulder, tugs on him so he’s between his legs, and Danny lets himself fall back against the counter, against Steve’s warm and comforting chest. 

“I let my grief. My _guilt_. I let it consume me. And one day I was wandering the streets. I think I’d had some idea I’d find a bar where no one knew me and drink till it numbed the pain, but I walked by this shop. And the door was open, and I could smell roses. It just took me right back, memories I didn’t even know I had, to my grandmother’s rose garden. And things just felt softer. So I walked in, and the woman who owned the place was cleaning up. And I offered to help. I just needed to smell those roses. I can’t explain it. And I kept coming back.”

Danny smiles, turns to face Steve, pushing off the counter, adjusting his stance, resting his hands on Steve’s legs, finding strength in the contact. Which is something he doesn’t think he’s ever really experienced, other than that surge of certainty he used to get, holding Grace when she was little. But he likes it. He likes it a lot. Steve’s smiling back at him, like he likes it too, and it helps.

“So Gertrude taught me. Told me there was a reason I was drawn to the roses, and to follow it, listen to it. So I did. And I dunno, but it helped. And she either felt sorry for me or thought I was decent at it, because it wasn’t long before she offered me a job. I’d been put on leave from the force, and we’d moved in with my folks, which was great for Grace but too hard on me, so she let us have the apartment upstairs—she couldn’t do stairs anymore and was living with her daughter the next town over. Anyhow, after a bit she retired, got me to run the place for her, and I saved up and eventually bought it from her. Lou meanwhile was starting the cafe, raising Sam on his own, we kind of worked out a co-parenting thing, and eventually life wasn’t so awful anymore.” 

For a while they just stand there, watching each other. Knowing something... has shifted, is brewing, Danny’s not fully sure what to call it, but he knows. It’s almost like he smells it, like he smelled the roses.

“The name. Of your shop,” Steve eventually says. “RGD... is Rachel, Grace, and Danny?”

“Yeah,” Danny admits. “It just felt right. It’d originally been named G&E Florals, for Gertrude and her sister Edith. So sticking with initials worked.”

There’s another pause, and it’s almost like they’re waiting for an echo to fade. Which, maybe they are, maybe that’s a good way of putting it. The echo of the past, that still fills this place, still takes up space in Danny’s heart. Always will. But it settles back down, and when it does, he knows, everything looks the clearer for it.

“I’ve got a trip this week,” Steve says quietly, as though he’s afraid of waking something. “Wednesday through the weekend. But can I see you Monday? Maybe... take you out for dinner or something?”

Danny smiles. Looks down at his feet, sees there’s flower petals there they missed. Soft pink and red. Almost in the shape of a heart. Or maybe he’s just being fanciful.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he says.

“Good,” Steve replies, and he lowers himself carefully to the floor, and he dips his head to meet Danny’s lips for a kiss. Just a light one. Like a promise of a beginning. “Me too.”


	4. Late Night Sports Update

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never watched the fabulous Aaron Sorkin show “Sports Night,” but you love “West Wing” or “The Newsroom,” and you can find it to watch, I highly recommend it. Same fabulous dialogue, same amazing dynamics. Same Sorkin splendor, half-hour sitcom format. 

Steve’s in his office, looking between the bank of TVs and the perfectly pressed pale blue shirt hanging on the back of his office door. His door which is closed. Because, ostensibly, he’s writing his copy for tonight’s show. 

Which he’s very much  _not_  doing. 

Adam knocks on his door and enters without waiting for an answer.

“You’re gonna wanna catch the end of the game in Toronto,” he says, switching one of the TVs over.

“Thanks,” Steve mutters distractedly, and pretends to look down at his keyboard. 

It doesn’t fool Adam. 

“You gonna tell him?” 

Steve looks up, meets Adam’s concerned expression with a steely gaze. At least, he imagines it’s a steely gaze. Maybe it’s just a sad and pathetic look. 

Adam presses his lips together. “No. Of course you’re not. That would be crazy. Silly of me. Could you at least write your piece on the strike for tonight? If you leave yourself nothing to go on again....” 

He walks out, closing the door, without finishing the thought because he knows he doesn’t have to. Because Steve knows full well what’ll happen if he doesn’t write his script in time. 

Didn’t used to be the case. Time was he could improv the whole show. Start to finish, top to bottom, from the first teaser at nine o’clock to the last snarky line just before midnight. 

That was before. 

Before he figured it out. Why he and his co-host had such fabulous chemistry. Why their banter won them all the best ratings. Why they had so many fans. Why there was even something called a boat or something that had both their names mixed up in it. Why there was a drink named after them on the late night menu at the hot new sports bar downstairs. 

Once he’d realized, he’d felt so stupid. Once he’d realized, the whole world looked completely different.

And he’s not been able to ad-lib since. 

The first time it happened, Danny’d covered for him easily. 

The second time, Danny himself had stumbled, but recovered enough to take over. 

The third time, Adam had fed him lines over his headset. 

The fourth... the fourth time he’d been called into Joe’s office and been subjected to the worst dressing down he’s ever experienced. 

That next morning, Adam had shown up at his apartment with coffee and those Italian pastries from Little Italy, and had made him admit the truth. 

That he’s in love with his co-star, has been for years, he just never realized. 

Not that it’s helped. 

The thing is, now he gets it, he can’t understand why he never saw it. Because the truth is, he loves absolutely everything that Danny does. Absolutely every little thing. 

He loves it when Danny sits on his desk eating his sandwich while they talk through the games of the week they want to send Kono to. He loves it when he brings Charlie to the office on Fridays even though he should be in bed sleeping instead of watching his dad write and film a TV show. He loves it when he’s on the phone with some big network exec and Danny walks in, opens Steve’s bottom left hand desk drawer, takes a peppermint patty out of the bag, complains about it not being frozen, rolls his eyes when Steve shushes him, and eats it, throwing the wrapper in Steve’s face. He even loves it when Danny nervously clicks his pen between edited segments and studio shots. 

It’s taking up all of his headspace, this whole realizing-he’s-in-love-with-Danny thing. And he’s becoming more and more certain it’ll be his downfall.

Well, he’s had a nice run, he figures. He never should have got this far anyway. Never expected to be anything other than local sports at his hometown station. Where his status as his high school's top quarterback actually holds some weight. Where the fact that he doesn’t have Danny’s fancy Northwestern School of Journalism degree doesn’t matter because he’s a McGarrett, and people on Oahu still know what that means. 

In New York, what matters is he’s pretty. And he banters well with the smart, talented, well-educated Danny Williams. And it’s enough. He doesn’t know how or why, but it’s been enough to get them to the top of the late night sports show ratings.

And he’s  _this_  close to ruining it all because he can’t keep his head in the game. 

Literally.

Because he’s just missed the end of that Toronto game, and now Adam’s knocking on his door, calling him in for the production meeting, and he’s going to have to fake it again. 

He’s really starting to hate himself. 

Not once but twice during the meeting, Steve drifts off to what he can only call La La Land. The first time Adam manages to get his attention, but the second, it takes their producer Cath throwing a wad of paper at his head to bring him back to earth. He happens to catch Danny’s quizzical gaze aimed his way, and he hopes he shrugs it off. He knows he’s failed when Danny corners him after the meeting. 

“Walk with me,” Danny says, and steers Steve in the direction of the control booth, which this time of night is still empty. “Alright. Spill,” Danny says, once the soundproof door is shut. 

The wheels in Steve’s head spin madly. He knows he needs to come up with something, he knows it won’t be the truth because he knows he’s a coward. 

Because the thing is, Danny is by far the best thing to ever have happened to him, and there’s simply no way in hell he’s fucking that up by professing his love. Just, no. 

“I’m okay, really. Just a bit distracted.”

“Distracted my ass,” Danny spits.

_Yeah, that too_.

“Seriously, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I’ve been such a space case.”

“I really don’t think you are fine, but then you never have been. Probably took one too many hits on the field. Just stop fucking up our show, okay, babe? I am not up for another session of ‘let’s placate the network execs’ if you blank out on another segment. If you need to take a few days off, get your head screwed on right, I’d rather you do that. We can pull Kono from the road, she can fill in, or hell, Adam’s a handsome bastard, he can do a couple shows.”

_Really not helping to hear that Danny thinks Adam is good looking_....

“No, I got this. Really. I’m sorry I’ve been letting you down.”

Danny takes three steps closer, and Steve stops breathing (well, there’s one solution to his problems). 

“Hey. The show will be fine. I’m more concerned that you’re not doing okay and not telling anyone about it.”

Later he’ll blame the lack of oxygen, or the frigid control room air, but Steve basically knee jerk reacts to that with what seems like the obvious response at the time: “Oh, Adam knows.”

If he could actually physically kick himself he would. 

Instead, Danny looks an awful lot like Steve’s kicked _him_. 

“Oh.” Danny pauses for what feels like ten years. “Okay, then. Yeah. That’s good. Alright, I’ll just let you get on with it then.” And he awkwardly backs out of the room and doesn’t look back. 

Shit, shit, shit, _shit_. 

Maybe it’s sheer terror, but Steve pulls his shit together and makes it through the show somehow. The rest of the team head down to the bar after, but he escapes home claiming he’s got an early thing in the morning. 

Which technically isn’t too much of a lie, because what he has is Not Sleeping At All Because He Can’t Stop Thinking About Danny. Which includes the early morning hours, which somehow stretch into infinity when you’re not sleeping, though they ordinarily pass in mere moments when you are. 

The point is, by the time he makes it to the office he only marginally doesn’t look like shit, and it’s not helped much when Cath calls him out on it. 

“You’ve got basically three jobs, from where I sit,” she says, perching on the edge of his desk, glaring into his soul the way she always does. “Say insightful things about sports. Banter playfully with Danny. And look so damn pretty that half of Manhattan wants to throw their panties at you.”

He glares back. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Shut up, get your head out of your ass, and tell Danny you’re in love with him or so help me I’ll do it while you’re on the air.”

“ _You wouldn’t_.” And then: “Wait. How the fuck do you know—”

She sighs. “You’re such an idiot.” She runs a hand through her hair. “He was a mess during the show last night. I can’t believe you didn’t notice. You ran off after so you missed it, but he didn’t come for drinks with us, and I found him moping in his office. Got him to at least admit Adam knew what was wrong with you—thanks, by the way, for telling the lightest lightweight. Only cost me two drinks before I got him to spill.” Steve starts to say something but she cuts him off. “Don’t you dare blame him, he didn’t stand a chance. He had Joe on one side, me on the other, he’d have ratted out his mother.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“That’s up to Danny, and as long as you don’t do it in my control room, I’m good with it, but please, for godsake, do _something_ before the two of you idiots ruin my show.” She jumps down from his desk, ruffles his hair. “Get back in the game, McGarrett. You can’t win if you don’t even get out on the field.”

She has a point. Cath always has a point. And it’s usually spot on. But she doesn’t understand how much he’d be risking. How much his stomach clenches at the possibility—no, the likelihood—that him admitting his true feelings will ruin _everything_.

He knows his only chance is to keep his head in the game—and his heart out of it.

So he puts his all into his script. And he shoves his feelings down as far as he can. He pays attention to all the highlights Adam shows him. He asks Kono pointed questions, eggs her on to push her interview subjects. And he’s attentive and insightful in the production meeting, even pitching a new extended story about sideline waste and paper cups versus reusable bottles that need to be washed, and he’s engaged with everyone and he’s almost himself. 

He catches, out of the corner of his eye, Danny looking... well, not exactly his normal self. But when he looks closer, he thinks he must have imagined it. And yes, he seems a bit distant, a bit reserved. Maybe he’s just tired, and surely that will pass. It’s not too late, he can’t believe it’s too late, for them to save this. He has to believe that. 

And the show goes okay that night. Not great, but not awful. And Cath seems pleased. Suspicious, but pleased. And for most of the next week the trend continues. Steve’s seemingly back on his game, keeping focus, getting stuff done. 

He’s not sleeping at night, and for some reason his digestion is off and food doesn’t taste right, so he kind of stops eating. 

But the show must go on, as they say. And it does.

Until it doesn’t. 

It’s maybe a week and a half later, and Steve’s not-sleeping and not-eating is starting to catch up with him, and fortunately it’s Adam who finds him, passed out in his office, and revives him with a really huge coffee and a sandwich from the deli across the street. And Adam tries to say something about Danny’s state of mind, but the only way Steve’s getting through right now is by basically blocking Danny out as much as he can, so he ignores it. Figures whatever it is, Adam and Cath and Joe can handle. Steve’s upholding his end of the bargain, and it’s all he can do right now. 

But sometime into the fourth segment that night, Danny just kind of freezes. And Steve recognizes it with a flash of alarm. Is this what it’d been like for Danny when Steve had lost it? And he covers, and it’s mostly okay, but then in the middle of the next piece, Danny drifts a bit, and when Cath hollers over the headset, he pulls his focus. But then it happens again, and Steve hears swearing in his ear. And he _knows_ , right before she says it.

“Danny. Steve’s in love with you.”

And she’s not the best producer in late night sports for no reason, because she times it. To perfection. 

Steve’s got the first lines, just back from Kono’s field segment. So the fact that Danny’s sitting there gape mouthed doesn’t matter so much, as Steve gives his brief report on NFL trade news. 

And then it’s Danny’s turn.

He turns to Steve. “Is that true?”

And Steve from the depths of he knows not where manages to both answer Danny and not completely lose the plot.

“Yes...” he says, then adds: “The Seahawks are willing to trade to get a higher pick in the draft. It’s true.”

Danny’s staring at him like he has two heads and like they're not in the middle of a live broadcast. “How come you never said anything?”

“Well,” Steve clears his throat. “I only just found out recently. That they had any players they might be willing to let go.”

“Wait, is this why you’ve been an absolute—”

There’s a rustle of hissing and then Cath yells “And we’re out. Guys, you have two and a half minutes. Figure it out.”

“Yeah, Danny. It’s why I’ve been a jerk. Why I’ve been a flake.”

“An ass? A mess?”

“Those too,” he says. 

He almost wishes Danny would stand up and punch him, but he’s just sitting there with this utterly unreadable expression.

“Okay,” he says after a couple blinks and a painful looking bite to his lips.

“Uhhh, okay?”

“Take me for a drink after the show,” Danny says, and he turns to his notes. 

A couple beats more and Cath’s in Steve’s ear. “We good?”

“Yep,” Danny replies, without looking up. “We got this.”

“Steve?”

“I guess...?”

“I need more than a guess, Steve.”

He looks over at Danny, who does look up. Just enough to let Steve see the heat, the spark in his eyes. He sucks in a breath and turns back to face the booth.

“Yeah, Cath. We’re good.”

“Well thank fuck,” he hears, and Danny chokes on his laugh. 

They make it through the rest of the show, though he vaguely suspects they may look slightly softer and sparklier than normal. And it’s a little bit awkward, what with the entire studio finding out how he feels about Danny at exactly the same time Danny did. But everyone stays out of their way after the show wraps for the night, and when they head down to the bar for drinks, there’s a table waiting for them, with a bottle of red, two glasses, and a note from Joe. 

_About damn time and don’t fuck it up_.

“There’s no way we keep this quiet, is there,” Danny says, when Steve hands him the note.

“Yeah I really don’t think so.”

“Well, in that case, and seeing as we have network approval,” Danny steps right against Steve, reaches up to hold the back of his neck, and pulls him down into a sweet, soft, lingering kiss. 

“Getting right to the point as usual, Williams,” Steve mutters when Danny releases his lips. 

“It is kind of the signature of our show,” Danny says, grinning, as he sits and reaches for the wine. “It just wouldn’t be us to do it any other way.”

And that, Steve thinks, he can definitely get on board with. 


	5. A Date to a Family Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a Bartender Steve AU on my list already, then I got a suggestion for a Fake Dating AU, and the two kinda melded together, and I just went with it. 
> 
> Misanfaery, thanks for the prompt! I’d not thought of it, but it’s definitely a theme I enjoy, so was excited to give it a try. Hope you enjoy the result half as much as I loved writing it. :-)
> 
> Uh, so oops this one got a little long, but pretty sure you won’t mind!

“Hey, Catherine.” 

“Ohhh, that bad, huh?”

Danny groans. 

“Better get inside,” she says warmly, slapping him on the back and letting him through.

“Thanks,” he mutters, thinking to himself not for the first time that Steve really knows what he’s doing, having his best friend, and surely one of the hotter women in the city, as his bar's bouncer. 

Steve cringes almost as soon as he spots Danny, walking dejectedly towards him across the already crowded room. By the time Danny manages to collapse into his usual seat Steve’s setting his drink down in front of him.

“Bad day, huh, buddy?”

He has to lean in a bit to be heard without talking loudly enough so that those around them can hear, and Danny’s hit with the smell of Steve’s aftershave. It goes straight to his head and reminds him he skipped lunch because he had been too tight in his stomach from the news to eat. He’s grateful now for that because it will take less time for him to get as drunk as he needs to. 

“You could say that,” Danny grouses, into his Jack and Coke, noting it’s especially strong tonight and wanting to kiss Steve for it. (Granted, he wouldn’t mind kissing Steve just for the hell of it. But that’s another story all together.)

“You gonna tell me, or make me guess?”

Danny sighs. He could stall, but Steve’ll get it out of him eventually, and the sooner he admits it, the sooner he can drink in peace. 

“My cousin’s getting married.”

“Uhh. Congratulations?”

“Mmm. She finally got her girlfriend pregnant. Yeah, I know, that sounds—Liz works at a fertility clinic, that’s how they met. But once Julie was pregnant they decided they wanted to get married. Succumbing to family pressure more like.” Danny takes a big swallow of drink and sputters a little.

“Easy there, buddy,” Steve says, grabbing the bottle of Jack and topping his drink up. 

“Thanks.”

“I thought weddings and babies were generally considered happy things?”

“What are you, an alien making assumptions based on movies?”

Steve chuckles and leans closer, and ohhh that’s not helping at all. 

“I’m just thinking it’s not like you to be upset over someone else’s happiness.”

“Stop making me sound like a nice person. It’s distracting me from feeling sorry for myself.”

“Why? Because you don’t have someone at the moment?”

“Yes, you idiot. Because a family wedding means ‘oh, Danny, when are you gonna meet someone and settle down,’ and ‘doesn’t it make you want to have babies?’ And on and on.”

“Well, does it?”

“Don’t you have a bar to run or something?”

Steve looks up, turns to look at the other end of the bar where his partner is surrounded by fawning customers.

“Hey Junes, you doin’ okay there, brah?”

Junior looks Steve’s way and gives him a thumbs up.

“See? He’s fine. Now answer the question. Does it make you want to settle down and have kids?”

“It doesn’t work that way. You can’t just say ‘oh I feel like a relationship.’ You gotta have someone who’s relationship material.”

“That sounds like a heavy burden,” Steve says, and he pours himself a shot. “So, okay, take a date and pretend, deflect those comments, have a fun time, and don’t worry about it.”

“A date. To a family wedding.”

“Uh, yes?”

“You can’t just take someone to a family wedding.”

“Um. Why not?”

“Because, you absolute imbecile, everyone will assume you’re next.”

“Jesus, Danny.” He takes another shot. 

“Exactly,” Danny agrees, downing his drink. 

Steve takes the empty glass and refills it, but before handing it back, he looks Danny in the eye. 

“Take me.”

“What?”

“Take me. We can pretend we’re serious, but then later I can cheat on you and you’ll have an excuse for us not getting married and you’ll get sympathy too.”

“You’d do that?”

“Which part?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “Be my fake date, you jerk.”

“Okay, just checking, because I absolutely wouldn’t cheat on you. But yes. Of course. What are friends for?”

“If this drink’s as strong as the last one, I’ll probably say yes.”

Steve pours more Jack in till the drink almost overflows. 

“Trying to get me drunk?” 

Steve grins. “Just say yes.”

Danny’s stomach flutters, and his heart feels like it’s beating inside his head, and he knows there’s probably no way he gets out of this without being hurt. But he lowers his head. “Fine. Yes. Be my date.” He looks up in time to see Steve looking like the cat with the bowl of cream. “But you’ve got a lot to learn, if we’re gonna pull it off.”

“Great!” Steve says, putting the bottle away. “I’m off tomorrow. Pick me up at noon.”

And just how Danny started off with a fake date and now has what sounds a little too much like a real one, he’s just not gonna question. But at noon the next day he’s pulling up in front of Steve’s place, and Steve’s already waiting, with a smile and far too much energy radiating off him.

Once Steve’s in the car he leans over and kisses Danny on the cheek. “Better get used to it,” he says, presumably to excuse the kiss.

“Uhh, okay,” Danny manages, hoping like hell he’s not blushing. 

“So, where do we start?” Steve asks. And truly no one should sound so eager to learn about their fake boyfriend.

“Well, we have a stop to make. But likes and dislikes, I think. I’m kind of notoriously particular, and my family will expect you to know it.”

Steve looks sideways at Danny. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Danny—maybe because of muscle memory from years of fighting with siblings, maybe because he’s unused to Steve being within reach rather than on the other side of the bar—reaches out and smacks him on the arm.

Whatever reaction he expects, it’s not what he gets, which is a hand splayed heavily on his thigh. But it’s nice. It’s kind of... grounding. Calming. Anchoring. It soothes his nerves, if you must know. And if there’s some part of his brain that thinks it would be a nice thing to have sometimes, well, maybe that’s a normal reaction to human contact, okay?

They drive in silence for a while, Steve looking out the window, and Danny starts to get the sense he’s waiting for him to react maybe—to the hand, the touch, the claiming. But the thing is, Danny always figured Steve would be physically demonstrative. He’s just kind of got that presence, a physicality that takes up space, floods into your own. Well, Danny’s own at any rate. He knows he has relatively weak borders, but that’s never been more true than with Steve. He just washes right over Danny.

Not that he’s complaining, exactly. 

Except that it does make him wonder what it would be like. To allow himself to be washed away completely.

He’s a bit lost in his thoughts, so he misses  it when Steve’s other hand reaches over to switch on the radio and find a station playing some unbelievably sappy crap that makes Danny cringe.

“Are you kidding me?” He asks, when it becomes clear that not only does Steve not intend on changing it, but he’s actually seeming to enjoy it.

“What’s wrong?”

“This music?”

“Danny, you have no appreciation for the romantic things in life.”

“Is that so.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me, Steven, just how this song is  _romantic_?”

“What? It’s talking about someone’s eyes. How a person looks at someone they love. And how is ‘No more lonely nights for me’ not incredibly romantic?”

“It’s a song about people getting it on on the dance floor, you goof.”

“And that’s not romantic?”

“Just turn it off before I throw up please.”

Steve turns it off, but he moves his other hand further up Danny’s leg, either intentionally or because of turning to switch the radio off, Danny’s not sure. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re pulling up to their first stop anyway. And Steve stiffens instantly.

“Really?”

“Well, I’m guessing you don’t own anything other than cargoes and those faded things you call shirts. Neither of which are acceptable at a wedding, and no one in my family will buy me being okay with someone I’m dating wearing them.”

Steve looks kinda squinty and sideways at Danny, and his heart kind of flomps.

“What?”

“You’re not really that shallow.”

“You wanna be believable?”

“I’d like to be myself,” Steve says, tone borderline hurt, and Danny almost feels bad.

“You can’t be yourself in decent clothing?”

“Fine. Dress me. But I don’t believe you really think that matters.”

Danny rolls his eyes, but Steve follows him into the store without further comment.

And maybe Danny softens his choices in response. He picks a pair of navy trousers that will be elegant enough but are still slightly rugged, a dark blue dress shirt in linen, and a pair of navy and white polka dot socks.

Steve grins crookedly at the socks.

“What’s that look for?”

“Nah, nothin’,” Steve says shrugging and grabbing the clothes to try on. 

“No, not nothing. What was that look about?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you later, if you don’t hurt my feelings any more.”

Danny’s first impulse is a quip that surely Steve doesn’t have feelings capable of being hurt, but he squashes it in favor of grumbling “Fine.”

As soon as he sees Steve in the clothes, though, Danny realizes with a jolt just how dangerous this game he’s playing is. Because shit does Steve fit the  _you clean up nice_  cliché a little too well.

“Hey, you know, these aren’t so—” Steve stops suddenly, mid-sentence.

“What?” Danny asks, turning around to look at what made him pause, but there’s nothing there, no one in the dressing room but Danny. 

He turns back to Steve, who’s smiling softly at Danny now, and it’s an odd look on him, Danny decides. He also decides he likes it. Kind of a lot. 

“These aren’t so bad, I was going to say.” 

“Yeah?” Danny asks, stepping closer, fussing with the shirt, pulling the back out from being tucked in, brushing over the creases in the front of the slacks. He’s pretty sure it’s not his imagination when Steve shudders as Danny's hands slide down his thighs. “Think you can still be yourself like this?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and if his voice sounds a little rougher than normal, it’s probably just the dry air in the store.

“Great, take ‘em off and I’ll go pay for them, then we can go get some lunch.”

“Usually you buy a guy the meal  _before_  you ask him to take his clothes off, Danny,” Steve says, smacking Danny on the ass as he turns back to the changing stall with a grin. 

“Har, har, very funny.”

While he waits for Steve, Danny debates lunch options. Two are equally important. One, easier to explain, the other much harder. So he decides on his favorite deli and when they arrive, and Steve is overwhelmed, Danny’s pleased he chose right. 

He watches in silence as Steve explores the multitude of options open mouthed. And after what seems like forever, Steve turns to Danny with a smug, challenging kind of look Danny’s seen on Steve’s face before, at the bar when someone new comes in for the first time.

“Let me guess.”

“Huh?”

“Your sandwich. Let me guess.”

Danny nearly spits out his laugh. “There’s like a one on five million chance you’ll even come close, babe.”

Steve grins. “So you’ve got nothing to lose. But if I win, I get to take you to my favorite place for dessert. After all, you should know some stuff about me, too, right?”

Danny shrugs. He’s got a point. And the fact is that Danny actually  _does_  want to know about Steve, and Steve isn’t usually terribly forthcoming about himself, so okay, the offer is appealing. “Fine, go for it,” he says, and steps away from the counter, gesturing for Steve to give it his best shot.

“Mmmm, let’s see. Bread first of all. Not that softer Hawaiian style stuff of course,” he mutters, and Danny feels the tiniest twinge that Steve has after all incorporated Danny’s dislike of things tropical into his store of knowledge about him. “I’m going to guess one of these hard rolls, but the sub style ones. Then... mayo and mustard, but not yellow... spicy brown I think. And a pinch of herbs, maybe. Some of the Italian meats, obviously. Oh, but which ones. Soppressata and capicola, I think. Provolone, of course. And tomatoes, and... nope, no peppers. I think that’ll do it.”

He turns to look at Danny, who is nothing less than stunned.

“That’s, um. That’s remarkably accurate.”

“Yeah?” Steve sounds a little distant, a little fuzzy, and Danny half wonders why, but then he notices he’s licking his lips and Steve is mesmerized by it.

“Um.” He tries to pull himself to focus. “I like a little vinegar to soften up the bread. Don’t usually do the herbs, but that sounds nice. Uhh, sometimes I add turkey to it, and sometimes havarti instead of provolone because it’s creamy, and you’re right, I don’t do peppers, but sometimes I’ll add onions or spicy pickles, or other pickled veg.”

“Nah,” Steve replies easily. “No onions while we’re dating, unless you’re mad at me and don’t want kisses.”

Danny has to blink hard and swallow. “So what’s yours?”

Steve shrugs. “You pick one for me, I’m not really much of a sandwich guy.”

“Well, what do you like?” 

Steve presses his lips together. “Surprise me.”

And he walks toward the cooler to pick out their drinks, leaving Danny—still stunned over his evident sandwich transparency—to create a sandwich he hopes Steve will actually enjoy. 

He starts, of course, with that rich Hawaiian bread, adds a sweet mustard, then layers of honeyed ham and Munster, topped with tomato, sprouts, and avocado. 

And Steve, to Danny’s delight, loves it.

“That’s, wow, that’s really good. I’d totally eat that again.” He looks at Danny, and that soft look is back. It practically makes Danny’s toes curl. “You should have a sandwich place. Create custom sandwiches like this for people. It’d be a hit.”

Danny grins, sheepishly, into his own sandwich. And he wants to say something almost the same. Because he doesn’t usually have his sandwich just exactly like this. He typically feels he needs either something more substantial like the turkey, or more of a nod to the vegetable family with onions or pickles. But this, like Steve has called it, is somehow exactly how he truly loves it. And maybe that’s not so bad after all, to just pare it down to the things you really do love?

“I used to want to,” Danny admits. “Even had the space picked out and everything. It was gonna be ours, my wife’s and mine, we were gonna be that stereotypical Italian shop owning family. But, ah, she decided she’d rather be the wife of a CEO, and she left me the week before the wedding.” 

He stops to take a drink of the lemon flavored soda water Steve picked out for him. Another thing he’d not have chosen on his own, usually going just for plain, but finding he enjoys that extra twist. It’s... refreshing.

Danny shrugs. “After that it just didn’t feel right.”

“Hey.” Steve’s legs bump against Danny’s under the table. Like it’s some kind of concession to the hug he obviously wants to give. “I get that, but maybe it’s time? Do it for you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Danny sighs.

They finish their food in silence, legs resting against each other still, and it’s nice. It’s not often Danny’s all that comfortable with being quiet at a meal, usually feeling the pressure to keep up a certain level of entertaining conversation. But with Steve, somehow, and maybe it’s because Danny’s accustomed to sitting without talking while Steve bartends, but it’s not just an easy silence. It’s a nice one. A comforting one. And he’s not at all sure that’s something he’s known before. 

And he really likes it. 

“Okay,” Danny says, when they’ve finished eating. “Your turn.”

“Mmm?” Steve asks, as though Danny’s woken him from a daydream. 

“Dessert?”

Steve grins. “Yeah.” 

They wind up at, of course, a Hawaiian shave ice place. But not like the trucks you see at festivals. This one uses ingredients Danny’s never heard of before, and they’re all fresh. There’s ice cream involved, and condensed milk, and even these weird bean things. Steve gets guava and mango and coconut, while Danny sticks with coffee and vanilla, but it’s actually really nice. Like a frozen vanilla coffee. And the texture of the ice really is like nothing Danny’s ever experienced. 

“Do you miss it?” Danny asks, as they’re sitting in the sun after, and he feels almost as though he can hear the ocean. 

“Sometimes,” Steve admits. “There are a lot of painful memories for me in Hawaii. But even through all that, it’s home. And yeah, part of me is always gonna miss it. It’s why I like coming here. And why I always get pineapple on my pizza.”

“Whoa. Excuse me, what?” 

“You got something against pineapple pizza? Why am I not surprised.” Steve sighs. “Okay, no pineapple on my pizza if you don’t do onions on your sandwich.”

Danny chuckles. “Yeah, alright, that’s fair.” 

And why does it feel like that isn’t a theoretical fake dating compromise so much as an actual real one?

They get back in the car, and sit there for a bit, in that hesitation between wanting to do more and not wanting to push a good thing. Danny’s about to be bold and suggest they go back to his place, even though he knows that’s asking for trouble, when Steve speaks. 

“This has been really nice, Danny. Thank you,” he says. “I have to be at the bar by seven tomorrow night, but you free before that? I should probably learn about your family.”

“Yeah, of course. We could do that. Unless....”

“Unless what?”

“There’s a Mets game on tonight, and I was just gonna chill and have some beers and no big deal or anything, but if you really want to impress my family, knowing my boys would look really good....”

And it’s still bright out, it’s just towards late afternoon, but fuck if Steve’s whole face doesn’t light up like it’s Christmas.

“Well, everyone knows football’s the superior sport but... sure. I’d like that.”

Danny moves like he’s gonna smack Steve again, but Steve’s too fast for him. He grabs his hand and squeezes. And doesn’t immediately let go.

“I kinda need this to drive,” Danny points out, after noting the surprising softness of Steve’s hand. Makes sense, Danny supposes, that someone whose hands are the focus of attention in his work would put some effort into taking good care of them. Still. He wouldn’t have put handholding on his list of favored activities, but that might be about to change. 

“Okay. But I get it back later.”

And Danny doesn’t object.

They bicker lightly as Danny drives them back to his place. The quarterback versus the shortstop. Pace of game, rate and scale of injury, theoretical longevity of career... the expected topics. Neither of them played past college, Danny because of injury, Steve because of priorities, as defending his country outstripped his love of the game. Both miss it. 

“I mean, I watch the Jets games. It’s not like I don’t enjoy football. But, when you’re a Jets fan it’s a little challenging to truly  _enjoy_  football season.”

“That’s a really narrow-minded approach, Danny. Do you only like baseball when your team is winning?”

“Don’t be stupid. But it’s different.”

“How is it different? If you enjoy the game, you enjoy the game.”

“Let’s just say it helps if it’s a good game. And when the Jets play it, it is definitely not a good game.”

“That’s sad, Danny. That’s really sad.”

By the time they’re at his place, Danny’s a little lost to their energy, the flow of conversation between them. It’s not like they’ve not chatted before, for the many years they’ve known each other. But it’s been at the bar for the most part. A few chance encounters at a grocery store or coffee shop, but mostly at the bar, and the nature of that has been frequent interruptions, which on the one hand make the amount of time they’ve spent talking remarkable (and maybe he should have clued in about what that’s meant), but it also has meant a lack of this kind of single-focused energy. And it is nearly overwhelming him.

The point is. Danny hasn’t really thought clearly about the state of his apartment. 

Until they’re standing inside it. 

“You... weren’t expecting company. Clearly.”

“It’s, um, not as bad as it looks. Everything is clean, I promise. It’s just my... um, my organization method....” 

And he starts to move to clear the piles away, but Steve stops him.

“No, don’t. It’s good. I’d know this about you, right? If we were together. I don’t mind it. And actually, if we lived together—and your place is much nicer than mine, so it’d be here... but if I lived with you, I’d help. So... maybe I should try putting some things away.”

Danny’s heart is in his stomach. Or his throat. Or his spleen maybe. He’s all messed up by those sentences and possibilities even though they’re all pretend. Someone to help clean up. Maybe a partner whose strengths compliment your own. Someone who’s good at drying and putting away the dishes once you’ve washed them. 

So he stands there wordlessly as Steve collects a few things and carries them into the bedroom to put them away. Danny doesn’t follow. Mostly because. Well. The guy you’re dangerously attracted to and pretending to date is two feet from your bed. 

Yeah. 

Steve comes back out with a sly grin on his face, and that doesn’t add to Danny’s fuzzy tummy feeling at all, shit.

And then Steve’s expression completely shifts. 

“Wow. Nice kitchen.”

Danny turns around to face it, as Steve walks towards the space—exposed brick, long wooden countertops, open shelving, filled with mostly industrial grade kitchenware. It’s the one space in his apartment that’s uncluttered and tidy.

“Yeah, it’s why I got this place. You know, concession to working a boring office job instead of having a restaurant.”

“You gonna cook for me?”

“Don’t press your luck.”

“Okay,” Steve replies, amused, a look on his face that says nothing so much as he very much would like to press his luck. 

There are still photo collages from the holidays taped to the fridge. And they’re mostly pretty crummy quality, but it’s half decent as a starter intro to the larger Williams clan. 

Danny grabs two beers out of the fridge while Steve studies the faces, and it’s sweet, really. How focused Steve gets. Like it really matters to him, that he get it right.

“They won’t expect it, you know,” Danny says. “For someone to know them on sight, having never met them before. They’re not unreasonable.”

Steve takes the beer Danny offers, and tilts his head quizzically. 

“But I’d expect it of myself. If I were with someone. It would matter to me.”

And really, Danny’s pretty sure his stomach can’t take any more sideways jolts in one day. 

“Uhh, quick run down of favorite shows before the game?”

So they go thru Danny’s DVR and it turns out, somewhat surprisingly, that they watch many of the same shows, only Steve’s not big into tech, and with his bartending schedule he misses a lot of episodes, and Danny, almost on principal, never watches TV live except sports, because commercials, so they kind of incidentally agree they could, you know, maybe watch some together sometime or something. 

Movies, however, are a different matter. Movies... are problematic. 

“There’s just no way I’m watching war movies and bad action flicks. Not even out of love for the man I’d marry,” Danny says, returning to the sofa with a bowl of popcorn, having been propelled to make it by their feature film feud.

Steve laughs. “Not even if I watch your sappy crying films?”

“No.”

Steve’s eyes are doing this weird soft thing and Danny really wishes he’d stop. This is all supposed to be imaginary. And it’s really not feeling like it.

“Okay,” Steve says, gently. Like he’s actually giving in to a relationship thing again, not another theoretical compromise. 

“Game?” Danny asks over a roughness in his throat, and Steve nods. 

Once he’s got the sports station loaded, pregame coverage prattling on, Steve does that date thing with the scooting closer and putting his arm around the back of the sofa, and Danny, maybe because they’re pretending so why not, or maybe because it’s just not pretend at all, leans into it, settling with the popcorn in his lap, his head resting against Steve’s chest, and that’s forty seven kinds of fantastic he’s not going to be reliving for the rest of his life. 

Seriously. 

The Mets for once actually play well, so there’s not a lot of yelling involved, meaning Danny feels compelled to point out that ordinarily he would be much more agitated and animated. And loud.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says, his tone all warm and fond and amused, and Danny’s really struggling to keep up any kind of pretense. But the good thing about that, he supposes, is his family isn’t gonna have a hard time buying that they’re dating.  He starts to worry just a little about them all, but maybe especially his mom, becoming fond of Steve and getting too attached. Which is ironic as Danny himself is already very much in danger of becoming far too attached. 

When the game ends, Steve very gently extricates himself from a dozy Danny, but Danny immediately startles to alertness. 

“Shhh,” Steve soothes. “I can walk home from here. I’ll stop by tomorrow, so we can go over some back story for us, okay?”

Danny grins, probably too evidently contented by that idea, and Steve stoops down, pressing a kiss to Danny’s head before walking softly to the door and letting himself out. 

He shows up the next day right around lunch time, with some take out from his favorite Mexican place, and as they sit out on Danny’s tiny patio and sip the surprisingly okay Hawaiian beers he’s brought to go with it, Danny notes the shocking absence of cilantro in the food. 

Steve grabs a container that’s all cilantro. 

“They serve it on the side. It’s a husband and wife, and he hates cilantro. Their wedding vows actually included her promising to always keep the cilantro on the side... it’s kinda how the restaurant was born.”

“Okay, that’s adorable.”

“Isn’t it? I love the idea you don’t have to agree about everything to be in love.”

“Mmm,” Danny says, adding a whole sprig of cilantro to his fish taco.

“That’s disgusting, you’re not kissing me with that mouth,” Steve mock cringes, and okay probably he’s playing for it, but Danny sets the taco down, grabs another sprig of cilantro, eats it whole, then leans over and pulls Steve to him for a kiss. 

The fact that Steve doesn’t object in the slightest only enforces the notion that Danny was right.

“It’s like having your mouth washed out with herbal soap,” Steve says when Danny pulls back from the kiss. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Danny mutters, hiding his too-big grin behind his taco. 

They have more beers and talk, not about fake dating things, but about real things. Real likes and dislikes, real life stories. Real experiences and expectations. Their dating pasts.

Steve had actually dated Catherine, once upon a time, as Danny’s long suspected. 

“It’s cliché, but we really are better as friends,” Steve sighs, kicking his bare feet out, rubbing them against Danny’s at the edge of the patio, like he’s trying to soak up the sun like a cat. (He claims to be a dog person, like Danny, but Danny very much suspects he’s secretly a cat person.)

“It’s great to have both,” Danny muses, suddenly lost in memory of an old friend from his junior year in England. “A friend you can really be passionate with.”

Steve looks over at Danny, expression more heated than the summer sun. “Yeah, I think so too.”

A cloud passes over the sun, and the moment fades, but a tingle of  _what might be_  lingers on Danny’s skin like sunburn, and he knows it’ll itch like crazy later. 

They clear the take out wrappers and settle on the sofa again, right up against each other as easily as if they’d been doing it for ages. Steve picks what he thinks is the next episode of one of their shows, Danny realizes he’s already seen it, but promises not to give spoilers. He of course doesn’t keep that promise, until Steve kisses him to shut him up, saying something about always having wanted to do that, and Danny isn’t really sure if he means in general or with Danny specifically. 

They watch three episodes in rapid succession, then Danny suggests he should feed Steve before his shift at the bar. 

Steve stays near him in the kitchen, watching him closely, tasting things as Danny prepares them a simple pasta dish, kind of a fresher version of one of his grandmother’s standards. Roasted tomatoes, which he makes by the oven-full every weekend, some spicy sausage, fresh herbs from the window boxes on his patio, and a little extra pinch of heat from some chili flakes. Kind of like the extra heat he feels every time Steve steps right against him, claiming he wants a better look, and also they should get used to being in close contact “because that’s the kind of boyfriend I would be with you.” And yes, Danny notes the slight switch in wording from a general theoretical to a very specific “with you.”

They eat at the sofa, watching the first part of the Mets game, and Danny suspects Steve’s been studying, because his level of commentary has gone up a couple notches from yesterday. It warms Danny’s heart, alright? But it also makes his stomach clench. And he winds up not eating very much, which he passes off as still being full from the fantastic lunch Steve had brought, and he’s not sure Steve buys it, but he does finish Danny’s pasta, and okay. It’s nice to have your cooking appreciated. Cooking for one... well. It’s great in that you are free to really push things because if it sucks you can eat cereal for dinner. But in the same stroke, it’s nearly rewardless. Someone else enjoying it is always so much better. And Steve is really fantastic with the enjoying it.

“Forget sandwiches, bud. You should totally open a restaurant.”

Danny chuckles and allows himself to lean up against Steve’s side muttering “You’re just saying that because you’re required to by law as my fake boyfriend.”

And maybe he’s imagining it, maybe not, but it seems like Steve goes a little bit tense before he forces out a laugh, and sets his bowl down.

“I better get going. Will I see you at the bar later?”

Danny sighs. He usually would head over to the bar tonight. Because what else is he gonna do, and he likes to spend time with Steve. Only. Now he likes to spend time with Steve  _not_  at the bar, and shit, he’s really ruining this for himself isn’t he.

“I should do some laundry before the week starts and I forget to do it.” And it’s not completely untrue, so he doesn’t feel awful about making the excuse.

Steve nods, and it seems like he understands, but there’s maybe a little... regret... in there somewhere, and Danny’s heart lifts a little at the notion.

“I’ll be by sometime this week for sure,” Danny says as he walks Steve to the door.

“Good,” Steve says, and when he leans down to kiss Danny goodbye, if Danny lets himself pretend it’s not pretend, no one will know but him.

  
He does stop by the bar. Every night that week. Even if it’s only for one drink. And some of those nights Steve doesn’t get much time to talk with him, but it doesn’t matter. Because Steve’s looking at him all differently, and Junior’s more friendly with him, and Catherine gives him knowing looks that make his belly feel like Jello.

He and Steve spend the whole weekend together again. And the next week, he has Steve over for dinner not once but twice. And it’s become impossible to pretend they’re working on their story or learning about each other for the wedding. It’s pretty damn clear it’s a whole lot more. But it’s the story they’re telling themselves, and even if they’re not being very convincing about it, it’s what the cover of the book says. So they just kind of let it be.

And before they know it, it’s the weekend of the wedding, and first there’s the rehearsal dinner, which is just a BBQ at Danny’s aunt’s house, but they arrange to meet at Danny’s first to arrive together, and Danny’s given up his thing about how Steve should dress. Not intentionally or anything, he just stopped minding—or feeling like he should mind. The man he’s in love with (in theory, that is) is so much more than his clothes, and if his family can’t see past that, well, then they can be superficial about it, but he’s not going to make a big deal about it. 

But when Steve shows up at his place, he’s dressed in a pair of light blue slacks a step or two more casual from the navy ones Danny bought him for the wedding, and a short sleeve seersucker in shades of green that brings out his eyes and makes Danny’s knees actually go weak.

Steve doesn’t notice though, because his jaw has dropped at Danny’s choice for the evening—jeans that are tight in all the right places, thank you, and a (god help him) Hawaiian shirt. It’d been a gag gift from a friend ages ago for a luau themed bachelor party, but it’s not awful as such things go, and he thought it might help Steve feel more comfortable in the potentially overwhelming context of meeting his family. 

“You like that, huh?” Danny mutters, as Steve takes the cooler with the bowls of potato salad from Danny, handing him a bouquet of flowers, explaining they’re for his aunt. “Nice touch,” Danny replies, to which Steve responds that he wasn’t ignoring him when he told him about his family’s traditions.

And maybe it’s the flowers, maybe it’s just that Steve’s the kind of guy everyone falls instantly in love with, but Danny swears, not ten minutes into the party, everyone is exactly that, in love with Steve. And the amazing thing is, all that pressure, all the usual strain he’d feel ordinarily, at a family gathering like this, it’s just not there. It’s even more not there when Steve extricates himself from a gaggle of aunts and cousins and joins Danny at the bucket full of ice and beers and sodas, kisses him on the cheek, steals a sip of his beer, and says, in all apparent honesty, “God your family’s great.”

Danny nearly proposes on the spot. 

Steve makes even more friends when he takes over at the grill so Uncle Bob can throw the football with the kids. Danny doesn’t comment that Steve’s probably more skilled with a football than with grill tongs, because it’s exactly the kind of thing that wins you points in the Williams family, and Steve’s done it, just naturally from who he is, not out of some attempt to score high ratings. 

By the end of the evening, Steve’s offered to run the grill for the family party on the Fourth, and Danny doesn’t point out he’s extending the run of their imaginary union beyond what’s really necessary. 

He does however point out that Steve absolutely does not have to pretend to love Great Aunt Mildred’s ambrosia. 

Steve kisses him softly on the lips, just enough for Danny to get the hint of pineapple, and whispers “Who said I was pretending,” and goes to get more. 

When they leave, having offered to help clean up and been turned down with the incredibly embarrassing insinuation from Danny’s mom that they might have “better things to do,” Steve gets hugs and cheek kisses from the women and handshakes and slaps on the back from the men, and actual fist bumps, for crying out loud, from several of the kids. 

“Well, you’ve done it,” Danny says, once they’re safely in the car. “They’re crazy about you.”

“I’m glad. But that’s not why I did it,” Steve says, and then he kisses Danny. A slow, lingering kiss, like he’s using it to say something more. “I thought someone was coming,” he whispers when he pulls away. But then he kisses Danny again. “Just to be safe.”

  
They agree to meet up at Danny’s the next morning, and have breakfast together and get ready before heading out to the wedding and reception site which is an hour or so away. Steve brings pastries and Danny makes eggs, and if there’s part of him that had imagined his first breakfast with Steve coming after a night spent together, he’s not as upset as he might have supposed because it’s just so damn nice. Steve’s totally comfortable in his kitchen already. There’s even a bit of a lazy energy about it as though maybe they did just wake up, maybe have done this before, a dozen times or more. They’ve fallen so easily into being together, and maybe that’s only because it’s pretend, maybe it’s something more, he doesn’t know and honestly he’s not sure he cares. It’s warm and it’s easy and it’s comfortable and dammit he loves it.

The drive out to the wedding is beautiful, fields and farms and pastoral perfection. Steve keeps his hand on Danny’s leg the whole time, and he lets Danny pick the music, and they talk about the Mets and the latest episode of their show, and that steak Danny made the other night, and how Steve wants to learn to bake bread, and it’s so  _real_  Danny forgets that it’s not. 

And the wedding is lovely and short and sweet, “just like Julie,” says Danny’s cousin Liz as the ceremony fades easily into the reception, with light and fruity cocktails passed on trays, and the dance floor is right in the middle of things, and dinner is served family style so there’s no waiting in lines or waiting for waiters, and it’s just family having a nice time. 

Steve gets right in on the dancing, with a tangle of the family kids, and Danny stands at the side and watches, forgetting that his emotions are probably written perfectly clearly all over his face. 

He’s not been standing there very long when an already tired Julie slides up against Danny, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you,” she says, rubbing her belly in that slightly distracted way pregnant women sometimes do. “He’s a great guy and he’s so obviously smitten with you. It’s adorable.”

Danny wants to object. Doesn’t want the foundation of his relationship with his cousin’s wife to be a lie. But he’s watching Steve dance with the kids. And it’s not cousins and nieces and nephews he’s seeing. He’s seeing his own kids. His and Steve’s. And Steve looks up and sees Danny standing there with the bride. And it’s like Danny knows. Steve sees it too. And he realizes it’s not a lie. 

The lie is that it’s all pretend. 

Liz comes over just then, and kisses Julie. “Time for cake!” She says brightly, and Danny hears childhood in her tone. He hears countless family birthday parties, holidays, Super Bowl parties. And he knows. He wants this. And he wants it with Steve. 

It feels like Steve can read all of that on Danny’s face, and when he settles at his side to watch the cake cutting, his arm slips possessively around Danny. And Danny loves it. 

“You’re not faking it are you,” Danny whispers, watching the cake and not looking at Steve. 

“In my defense,” comes the slightly hissed reply. “Neither are you.”

“I never said I was....”

There’s a pause, a sharp breath. “No, you didn’t, did you.”

Danny shrugs. “I figured it was the only chance I’d get.”

Steve turns fully towards him. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to ask you out?”

He shakes his head just barely.

“More times than I could count,” Steve whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’d say yes, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve says quietly, pulling Danny back against his side, and holding him close, while the happy couple feed each other bites of cake, glowing like it’s both of them that are pregnant, and smiling like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to them. 

And Danny thinks that probably Steve knows what Danny means he’d say  _yes_  to. And yeah, Danny realizes how ironic that is. Given how this all started. But he also thinks it’s pretty much perfectly fitting. And he’s pretty damn sure Steve would agree. 

  
He wakes slowly the next morning, keenly aware of Steve in his bed, the warm, late-morning summer sunshine streaming through his windows. Steve stirs and tugs him closer. 

“Mmmm, ’ve dreamed about this,” Steve nuzzles into Danny’s ear.

“Me, too,” Danny admits. “Yesterday, when you came for breakfast... I’d imagined that happening after this.”

Steve sits up with a grin on his face. “I’ll go get more pastries, and we can reenact it. Don’t move.”

He gets out of bed, giving Danny the most fantastic view of his fabulous ass, and digs around in Danny’s dresser till he finds what he’s looking for. A clean pair of briefs, and a pair of Danny’s signature patterned socks. Sitting in the edge of the bed to pull them on, he leans over and kisses Danny. 

“Remember my reaction to the socks you got me?”

Danny nods.

“This was my version. Of _the morning after_. That I’d borrow a pair of your colorful socks, and that’d be how everyone would know we’d slept together.”

Danny laughs. “Wear them as often as you like.”

Steve kisses him again, amends his earlier order to include the provision that Danny can get out of bed and make coffee, as long as he’s back in bed and naked when Steve gets back with the pastries.

Which Danny does. 

And it’s even more amazing than he’d imagined. 


	6. By the Light of the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My initial reaction to the suggestion of werewolf fic was “Ack, I can’t do that!” But then this idea nuzzled its way into my heart, and I fell in love. I hope you enjoy reading it... I absolutely adored writing it. 
> 
> StBridget, thank you so much for asking. <3
> 
> I’ve never even read a werewolf fic, so if there’s stuff in here that isn’t the usual way, that’s why. Be gentle with me.

Danny’d thought his secret was safe. Thought this new place, so far away from where it had happened, would be a fresh start. A chance for a life where he wouldn’t be judged, not looked down upon, blamed.

And at first it had been. It’d been great. He’d made new friends, gotten to know the city, explored the island, found the best places to go to make this work. Set himself up as a bit of a survivalist, with a hilltop compound—fortress, really. Complete with electric fences. But it hadn’t been questioned because people did that here. Granted they were usually keeping the wild things  _out_  rather than  _in_. But same basic concept.

And he’d established a propensity for migraines. Which as migraines sometimes do, tended to fall around the time of the full moon. At least it wasn’t completely outrageous. And as long as he didn’t run into anyone who knew better, he should be reasonably safe.

And then he’d met Steve.

Steve, who didn’t understand what the word  _safe_  meant.

And Danny’s whole life changed.

The first time Danny saw the wolf, it had been a rough month. Lots of late nights and early mornings. Lots of eating poorly and sleeping like crap. And it’s not like Danny didn’t know better, didn’t know how dangerous those things could be for him. So, okay. Maybe he’d been a little stressed. And maybe he’d taken some of that stress out on Steve. But it’s not like Steve didn’t enjoy it. Sometimes it felt to Danny like Steve lived to get Danny to take his stress out on him.

And maybe that was just a little bit compelling.

It’s not like he was gonna take advantage of it or anything, though.

But that was the full moon the wolf first appeared. And it just sat there, on the other side of Danny’s impenetrable fence. Watching. Observing. Almost like it was assessing the situation. Coming up with a plan.

And Danny was aware enough, through his addled haze, to find his awareness of the wolf’s presence affected his behavior. He was still filled with a rage that seeped into his bones. An anguish he wanted to scratch from the surface of his skin, as though if he could only scrape the fur away it would somehow help. And sometimes, much to his daylight horror, he’d tried. Thankfully mostly on his legs, which might be part of why he kept refusing to learn to surf, even though Steve harassed him about that numerous times.

But something about the wolf’s presence grounded him. Like it helped to anchor him through his rage, until, much like a storm, it passed, and he slept. Leaving him drained, exhausted, and feeling utterly sick. But somehow less bereft than normal.

It wasn’t till morning that it occurred to Danny that probably there weren’t actually wolves on Oahu, and maybe he’d imagined the whole thing.

Oddly, that morning was also when Steve started his _I know you texted to say you had a migraine but I figured chocolate malasadas and the biggest coffee on the island probably would help_ routine.

And the weird thing was, they did. It wasn’t like Danny hadn’t figured out chocolate helped his recovery. More than meat did because usually he felt sick to his stomach precisely for meat-related reasons that first recovery day. But he hadn’t anticipated the addition of fried, chewy dough, and how it seemed to help. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have a massive headache those days anyway. The sort of post-migraine “hangover” feeling was actually not completely dissimilar to the post-growling-all-night headache he usually got. So the coffee helped too.

And Steve didn’t bicker, didn’t goad him, probably out of some odd sensitivity to his supposed post-migraine state. And okay, maybe it was kind of nice. Having someone there. Having comfort, okay? Human contact. After the traumatizing experience of the night before.

Steve fed him the donuts, made him drink all of the coffee, then made him rest. Covered him up with his favorite soft blanket on the sofa, told him to close his eyes. And he stayed. He sat on the chair across from the sofa, reading something on his phone. Sending a few messages—probably telling the rest of the team that he was with Danny making sure he got better.

And it did funny things to Danny’s heart. He’d not had anyone take care of him like that since he was a kid. And no one at all since... well. Since  _it_  had happened. So maybe if he revived a little faster than he ordinarily would, maybe it was because of the chocolate, or maybe the coffee. Or maybe, alright, maybe because of the company.

The next time he saw the wolf wasn't till the full moon after the next. That next one hadn’t been as bad. Danny’d had the flu and he’d been too weak to fight his transformation. And, of course, it usually went easier when he didn’t fight it. But he’d stayed within the inner garden that time, not ventured out to his den and the yard beyond. Too lost in the moon and in himself to think to look for the possibly-a-figment-of-his-imagination creature that had watched him so intently the moon before.

Steve had shown up that next morning. Not with malasadas and coffee but with soup and tea and herbal drops. He’d stayed all day, though Danny’d tried to chase him off with threats of spreading his flu germs. Steve, the danger-loving idiot, hadn’t been swayed.

But the full moon after the flu, the wolf was there again. Just outside the fence. Watching Danny feast, licking his chops at the scent of bloody meat.

Danny’d snarled at first, even though he knew the wolf couldn’t get through the fence, that drive to protect his kill flaring at the perceived threat. But the wolf whimpered, lowered its head and stayed, and maybe the wolf in Danny recognized the gesture for what it was. Maybe Danny’s own human caring nature pushed through the beast enough. Whatever it was, he tore off a chunk of the wild pig and threw it over the fence to the wolf, who dove for it greedily and settled in contentedly to gnaw at it while Danny finished his meal.

Maybe there was something in that shared communion. That somehow it released more of his primal energy or something. But Danny felt surprisingly sated after, and curled up on the ground to sleep. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, long enough to see the wolf settle into sleep as well. But when he woke, as his reverting process began just before daybreak, the wolf was gone.

Steve brought mochas that morning. And breakfast sandwiches. And he watched the replay of the Mets game they’d missed earlier that week, while Danny napped on the sofa. When Danny woke, and was hungry, Steve cooked for him. Just spaghetti and marinara, but it was comforting. As was Steve’s company. They watched a movie that night. Just some silly action movie. But it was surprisingly nice to have another person around.

That was the first night Steve crashed on Danny’s sofa. Which was also surprisingly nice.

The next full moon was a bit of a mess. 

They’d had a case that had dragged on and on. And Danny’d gotten a bit lost in it, had nearly forgotten what was coming, till it was after lunch, he hadn’t eaten, and he started getting really aggressive. Steve pulled him aside, managed to get his attention for long enough to basically order him to go home and eat before he bit someone’s head off. And he said it with snark, but it cut through Danny’s messed up signals enough for him to see what was dangerously close to happening.

He made it home, managed to eat a mostly raw hamburger, and curled up in a ball in his den, seething in anger and frustration and not fully sure why.

That night, the wolf somehow got over the fence.

Danny smelled him before he saw or heard anything. And then he scented fresh blood. Snarling in warning, Danny curled tighter into himself, burrowing deeper in his den. He heard soft paws pad slowly forward, then a squelching plop, followed by a whine he could only describe as concerned, then the faint retreat of paws, and a gentle rustling sound, as though the wolf had settled down in a lookout position outside the entrance to the den.

After a few deep breaths, Danny hesitantly crept forward, drawn inexorably to the kill despite the unknown variable of the wolf’s presence within the compound. How he’d made it over the fence, Danny couldn’t begin to imagine. Unless he was somehow gifted with opposable thumbs and the ability to open locked gates.

But the meat was fresh, and Danny knew he’d regret it if he didn’t feed, so he tore off a sizable piece and left it at the entrance to his den, then retreated with the rest to the back, and soon lost himself in slaking his body’s need for blood.

When he roused himself the next morning, the meat he’d left at the entrance was gone, and so was the wolf.

By the time he showered and dressed, Steve was in his kitchen, unloading stacks of chocolate chip pancakes and three kinds of syrup. Gratefully accepting the mug of coffee Steve held out, Danny muttered “Letting yourself in now, are you?”

Steve shrugged. “I had a key made just in case.”

Ordinarily Danny might have objected, but seeing as he was being fed his favorite breakfast food—and that was pretty much the perfect thing to soothe his hurt and frustration from the night before—he didn’t exactly feel he could complain.

If Steve had anticipated any backlash he didn’t show it. Just settled in at the kitchen table across from Danny and watched while he ate.

“You not having any?” Danny asked, around a mouthful of sweet, syrupy goodness.

“I already ate,” Steve replied, smiling as though merely watching Danny eat made him content. It was a weird notion, and it warmed Danny somewhere deep inside.

Once more Steve stayed the whole day. He read while Danny napped. Made sandwiches for lunch, pasta for dinner, and then after watching another replay of a baseball game, sent Danny to bed saying he’d stay out on the sofa again so they could head to work together in the morning.

If Danny was at all tempted to read anything in his partner’s particular care of him, he didn’t have too hard a time pushing it off as Steve’s whole  _ohana_  philosophy. It was simply what team members did for one another. He’d accepted Danny’s excuse of chronic migraines, decided he was worth it as a partner to take the effort to make it work, and Danny was grateful.

The fact that there was beginning to be a tiny, faint voice buried deep inside Danny that suggested maybe, just maybe, some part of him wanted there to be more to it than that, well. Danny had only to remind himself of his full, true nature, and the absolute unfeasibility of him ever having a real, functional relationship, and he’d sigh heavily, shove his feelings back down where they belonged, and try very hard to be grateful for what he did have. There’d been a time not all that long ago when he couldn’t have imagined having even this, so he tried to be content.

What started to be slightly more problematic was the unreachable itch the beast inside Danny started to have for the company of the wolf. It felt dangerous in a way he didn’t completely comprehend. And it started to eat away at his ordinarily workable resolve, his usual ability to be an adequate member of civilized society.

A full two days before the next full moon Danny’s cravings for bloody meat became almost unbearable. He’d long ago started making his own roast beef for sandwiches so that he could have it especially rare, and it was difficult to hide just how bloody it was without using a lot of mustard, but the mustard cancelled out too much of the taste of blood, and it just frustrated him more.

He started picking fights over meaningless points of protocol, just to get a rise out of Steve so he’d push back. When they cornered an abusive husband who was a suspect in a case and Steve left Danny in the interrogation room with him, it helped. Some. But when Steve had to pull Danny back before he did serious harm, and Danny felt the longing within him to bite Steve, he’d fled, horrified, and wound up devouring his entire store of roast beef without any bread.

It had barely helped.

That night, the wolf came early.

He was sitting in front of the den, teeth bared, ears back, eyes dark with fury.

Danny was in his early stages, still more man than beast, and maybe that was why the wolf lunged. But when sharp canines dug into Danny’s flesh, he felt a thrill course through his blood. He whimpered, and the wolf drew back, licking at the wounds. As Danny struggled against him, he pinned Danny back down, bit again, and Danny relented. The pain focused his rage. Bled some of it away. Muted it into an anger that was almost manageable, almost tolerable. 

By the time Danny was fully transformed, he was able to lash out at the wolf, and he thought he gashed him, thought he heard a cry. But the wolf didn’t flee. He stayed. Biting and licking in turn, holding even Danny’s fully transformed self down, maybe not with ease, but without as much effort as Danny might have supposed.

And the thing was. It helped. Oh, god, it helped so much. Danny soon exhausted himself, and fell into a deep slumber, only vaguely conscious of sleeping tangled, limb on limb, fur against fur, with the wolf.

But by the time Danny woke with the first pains of his reversion process, the wolf was gone, and Danny found he felt strangely bereft. He hadn’t slept that well the night of a full moon since before being bitten. He wondered how much of it he’d imagined, though, when he reached instinctively for the bite marks on his shoulder, wondering why he didn’t feel more pain, and found the skin there tender, but unmarred. Seeking to remember the sensations from the night before, he was easily able to call up the feeling of the wolf nuzzling against his bare skin before it was fully turned to fur. A thrill went through him again, just at the memory. One he didn’t want to think too closely about, now he was experiencing it by the light of day and fully human.

After a very long and very cold shower, he dressed and headed to his kitchen, expecting to find Steve there, offering him some breakfast treat, ready to ply Danny with coffee and sugar and watch TV lazily with him all afternoon.

But there was no Steve. And no message on his phone, no reply to his usual night-before  _Coming down with a migraine_  text.

He thought about sending another. But what would he say?  _Hey where’s my morning-after-migraine breakfast and coffee_? He wasn’t that much of an ass. And he wasn’t confident enough in his footing with Steve to be so bold.

So he made coffee himself. And it wasn’t as good and it didn’t help as much. And he had some cereal. Which didn’t help at all. And he didn’t nap, only partly because he’d slept so well the night before, partly because he was worried. He couldn’t say exactly why, but something didn’t feel right.

He was starting to drift, paying half-attention to a replay of a very dull Mets game, well towards evening, when Steve showed up, containers of take out from Kamekona’s in his hands, apologetic expression on his face, and limping.

“Oh god, what’d you jump off of this time?” Danny asked, getting up to take the food from him, but Steve waved him off.

“For your information I didn’t jump. And I didn’t fall. I gouged myself on some tools I left out in the garage. Had to get some stitches. No big deal.”

“I hope your shots are up to date,” Danny joked, feeling guilty for not having been more concerned. “Because I’m pretty sure those tools were not very clean.”

Steve flinched, muttered “You could say that,” then dished up the shrimp and rice without further comment.

As they ate, Danny let himself believe it was because he was concerned for his partner’s well being, and Steve for Danny’s, but they sat closer than usual at the table. And after, on the sofa, when they watched a movie—some gritty old black and white war film—if they let themselves fall against each other as they drifted off, well they were both a little unsettled, so it was probably just natural. And if Danny woke in the night, after the film had ended, switched off the TV, but declined to get up and go to bed in favor of staying out on the sofa, well, he didn’t know how bad Steve’s injury was, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

In the morning, Steve woke first and was gone by the time Danny opened his eyes to bright sunshine, but after his shower, he found Steve had returned, limping a little less, and carrying coffee and malasadas, just like that first morning.

Each night that week they did something together. Even if it was just beers at Kamekona’s at the end of the day.

That weekend they hung out, mostly lazing in the sun at Steve’s place on the beach. And Steve teased Danny about surfing, and Danny, oddly, didn’t say  _no_.

The following week Danny found himself showing up at Steve’s in the mornings. Letting himself in as Steve had started doing at his. Making coffee for Steve, drinking coffee Steve made, watching Steve make eggs, watching Steve swim. They ate dinner together several times that week—though two of those times were at the office during a case, so those didn’t really count.

As the full moon drew near, though, Danny found himself growing distant. He temper always got shorter, his need for meat that was less and less cooked grew more and more insistent. And he was growing fond of his life here. Didn’t want to do anything to put that—or the team, or Steve—in jeopardy. And the closer the moon got, the stronger Danny’s deep inner longing for the companionship of the wolf became.

Steve didn’t seem to mind Danny’s fluctuating moods. His sudden increase in need for solitude. And Danny was grateful for it. But he also felt guilty. He wished, for one long, horrible moment, that he could explain. But he knew that would be the end—of his life here, of the tentative peace he’d found. So he shoved that impulse down along with his other desires and longings he had to keep hidden away.

One evening, a couple nights before the full moon, Danny thought he saw the wolf. He was walking through his garden, checking on the plants he grew that were supposed to help that hadn’t ever done him any discernible good, and he saw a flash of white at the edge of the wood. He sniffed, wondering if he was close enough to turning to have his heightened senses, but all he breathed in was rain and green growth, not primal animal knowing. He thought about calling out to the wolf, but that would be preposterous. The wolf could commune with him in his altered form, but would likely kill him in his human form, in a heartbeat. Still, the longing flared within him, and he slept fitfully that night.

He walked in the garden the next night as well, but saw nothing.

By the morning of the full moon he was in a horrible mood, and he thought about not going in. About sending his  _Coming down with a migraine_  message now, rather than that night. But for some reason, he felt drawn to Steve’s side. And his animal instinct might get the better of him at times, but his instinct as a cop never failed him, so he trusted it, pulled himself together, ate two very rare hamburgers for breakfast, and got to the office just as they were being called out for a case.

It was one of those cases you just knew from the beginning wasn’t going to go well. They couldn’t catch a break, couldn’t ever get the lead, always were two steps behind.

Until Steve got one step ahead, and got himself shot in the shoulder.

Danny, who was in place behind him to see it all, turned his near full animal fury on the shooter, and it took Steve yelling at Danny—no, it was more like a bark—to get him to stop pummeling the guy and cuff and book him instead.

Turning then to Steve, and to the smell of blood, Danny felt something vicious coil in his gut. Something beyond any protective instinct he’d ever known. And when Steve grabbed for Danny’s hand to be pulled up, Danny had to physically hold himself back from licking Steve’s wound.

Once Steve was patched up, he turned to Danny, his expression concerned.

“You doing okay, buddy?”

Danny wasn’t sure if he meant his head, or something else. They didn’t talk about how predictable Danny’s migraines were, and Danny tried not to think about why they didn’t. But something in the way Steve was watching Danny now set little alarm bells ringing in his ears.

Still. Steve had been injured and Danny was having a really hard time letting that go. He was having a really hard time letting  _Steve_  go.

“You should get home,” Steve said gently. “I’ll be okay. Really. I just need to rest.”

Danny grunted. Or, he tried to. But it came out a lot closer to a snarl. He’d almost have expected Steve to recoil from such a sound, but he seemed to move closer instead.

“Danny. Go home. I’m okay. You need to take care of yourself.”

And somehow his tone broke through to the part of Danny’s brain that was able to keep the safety of others in the forefront, and he nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. Alright. Take it easy though, okay?”

Steve grinned, crooked, toothy, and bizarrely it reminded Danny of the wolf’s barred teeth. “Always,” he said, and slapped Danny on the shoulder, right where those teeth marks hadn’t been, and Danny shuddered.

The wolf wasn’t there that night, when Danny went out to his den, slab of meat with him, to get ready for the change. He wasn’t there even after Danny’d fully transformed. And when Danny could wait no longer to feed, the wolf still hadn’t appeared.

Then, as Danny was nearly done eating, he heard sniffing. 

Snarling, Danny turned, and saw the wolf. Favoring his front leg. Danny whined, and dropped the rest of the steak. He slunk back further into his den, hoping the wolf would move closer. He watched as the wolf lumbered awkwardly forward, clearly favoring the injured leg. He lapped listlessly at the steak, then let out a whimper, and laid down. Danny inched forward, sniffing as he went. When he reached the wolf and it still didn’t move, Danny nuzzled gently against the hurt leg, and the wolf rolled over, exposing his belly. With a surge of protectiveness he didn’t understand, Danny set about licking the wolf’s fur, huffing into his flesh, nipping softly, then licking again. Soon it was clear the wolf was near sleep, and Danny, much to his own surprise, curled possessively around him, and he, too, slept.

When his changes began to reverse in the morning, Danny looked for any sign the wolf had been there. The meat he’d left was still untouched, but other than that, there was nothing. Sighing with a longing that frightened him, Danny headed inside to shower, to scrub the feeling of loss from his skin, the hurt from his heart.

He was sitting with his coffee, out in the garden, when Steve showed up. Arm in a sling, looking a little green around the edges.

Danny sighed. “You should have let me drive you home last night at least,” he said, getting up and forcing Steve, gently, into a chair. He went inside and poured Steve a coffee, and took it back outside. When he leaned down to hand him his cup, and he took a breath in to lecture Steve about taking better care of his injuries, a familiar scent hit his senses like a punch to the gut.

He staggered back, catching himself before he stumbled, and managed to collapse onto his chair at Steve’s side.

“Oh my god, it’s you.”

Steve let a slight lifting of his lips tease briefly across his smile before hiding in his coffee mug. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before. I knew I’d scratched you. Gouged yourself on some tools, my foot. Do you know how dangerous that is? To leave a wound like that untreated?”

“I treated it. I happen to know someone very good at treating suspicious wounds.”

“I bet you do—wait, so you’re admitting it?”

Steve shrugged. “Not much point denying it now, is there.”

“I dunno,” Danny exhaled, his head spinning. “What the hell are we supposed to do with this?”

“I think we’ve been handing things quite well, all things considered.”

Danny turned to Steve in shock, jaw open, eyes wide.

“Oh, sure, yeah, it’s been great! Other than the fact that I’ve come _this_ close to biting you, you actually _have_ bitten me, oh, and, let’s see... I’ve nearly killed someone twice. Once because I was out of control from missing you and once because someone hurt you. Yep. Sounds like we’ve got it all under control.”

“Well, but now we know what we’re dealing with,” Steve pointed out with his usual _this is no big deal_ attitude. “We know how this works. We can get better at managing it.”

“Actually, I’m not in the least sure how this works,” Danny retorted. Much like he often found himself doing with Steve. “You wanna explain it to me?” 

He half expected Steve to say it was classified.

“It’s quite simple, Danny. You need me. We’ve bonded in our animal forms, and I can control you when I’m the wolf, when you’ve transformed.” There was a neediness to Steve’s tone, despite his words. It was a tone Danny didn’t recognize, and yet it felt familiar, and it was powerfully compelling.

“Yeah how’s that work exactly? You just become a wolf whenever you feel like it?”

“Yes, unlike your condition, I’m in control of my wolf form. So I can use it to manage you, even before you’ve turned. I think you’ve sensed that would help?”

Danny nearly whimpered at the thought. Swallowing, he looked into Steve’s eyes, saw the fury of the wolf flash there, and let out a pained huff. “God, yeah, I think it would.”

Steve grinned—well, wolfishly, of course—and licked his lips. “Good.”

“What do you get out of this?” Danny asked quietly, trying not to lick his lips in response. 

“I’d have thought that was obvious.”

Danny frowned. “Not to me it’s not.”

“Let’s just say it fills a need I’ve never been able to soothe before.”

Danny laughed. “Your death wish, you mean?”

“A certain need for danger, perhaps.”

“Does this mean less jumping off buildings and throwing yourself in front of bullets?”

Steve reached for Danny with his good arm, pulling on him, making him fall to his knees in front of Steve’s chair. “Absolutely not,” he growled, and crushed their mouths together in the most searing, most intense, most gratifying kiss Danny had ever known. 

“Well, I guess it’s a start,” Danny replied, whispering it like a promise onto Steve’s lips, wrapping a hand possessively behind Steve’s neck, letting his nails dig into the soft skin there, feeling his blood surge when Steve let out a growl in response. “It’s definitely a start.” 


	7. In an Italian Restaurant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Italian Restaurant AU—this one set in Italy. A little bit intrigue, a little bit romance, a little bit Italian vacation.... Very Summer Reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one just kind of swept me away....  
> Hope you find it tasty and refreshing. ;-)
> 
> (This one also got a little bit longer than "short and sweet"... oops.)

Danny hears Giovanni’s music through the sheer curtains as he empties the restaurant’s bins in the alley.

“At it again tonight, eh, Don Carlo?” He jokes, loudly enough his neighbor will hear, not so loud the widow next door will complain. Though if she did, he knows it’d only be to bribe him out of a plate of his cannoli.

He sighs, leaning against the golden stones of the building that’s sustained him these many years. These stones he once cursed, once loathed to call his own.

Danny’s come to peace with the jasmine scented nights. The endless repetition of  _Don Carlo_ , the ceaseless plates of gnocchi and cannoli. The mindless mornings making dough, heating the ovens, sweeping the cobblestones. The lonely evenings, contemplating the fates that led him to this life. This peaceful existence. This solitude.

It’s the absence of sound that first alerts him, not the presence. He couldn’t have said what it was, only... that somehow the evening stillness didn’t sound quite the same. But it doesn’t take long for him to hone in on it. Soft grunting. Pale shadows of sound intending to be silent.

“Who’s there?” He whispers, knowing as he says it, it’s probably the most common last words of dumbasses naive enough to suppose anyone lurking in darkened corners has anything other than malicious intent.

But the something stirs, though it doesn’t answer—its non-answer answer enough—and Danny somehow knows, there’s danger here, but not of the kind he’d expect.

“It’s okay,” he encourages softly. “I won’t hurt you.” And the scoff, swallowed swiftly up with a suppressed groan tells Danny all he needs to know. There’s injury involved, and knowing Danny’s luck, it’ll be some ancient, filthy creature who will bleed all over him, then proceed to eat him out of house and home—by which he means the restaurant—before gruesomely murdering him in his sleep.

But after a heavy sigh, the injured thing steps forward into the bare light spilling from the restaurant’s kitchen door, and it’s not faded resentment Danny sees. It’s a bit bedraggled, yes. A bit worn and harried around the edges. But the wounded man who’s landed on Danny’s doorstep tonight isn’t just handsome. He’s fucking gorgeous. And, fate would have it, just Danny’s type.

Well. Other than the hideous wound at his side, currently doing its best to stain the pavement crimson with the man’s blood.

“Uhh, okay. Maybe we better go inside,” Danny hisses, grabbing the guy by the non-injured-side arm, and basically dragging him in through the door, turning abruptly to head up to his apartment, and not get blood in his precious kitchen.

The guy winces and draws a sharp breath but doesn’t object and doesn’t fight Danny, so at least there’s that. Danny tugs him into the bathroom, kicks the toilet lid closed and gets him seated on it, while he runs water in the sink to get it hot, grabs some towels from the shelf over the toilet, and opens the medicine cabinet to look for what he might have. Which is half a bottle of painkiller, a probably out of date tube of first aid ointment, and some definitely expired condoms.

“Shit. The good first aid stuff's in the restaurant.” He looks at the guy, who’s swaying slightly but doesn’t look likely to lose consciousness. “Stay here, try not to pass out. I’ll be right back.”

The guy manages to nod, which is clearly a mistake, as there’s not much blood getting to his head as it is. He braces himself on the wall and swallows. “I’ll be good,” he croaks out, meeting Danny’s eyes with a kind of desperate gratitude that goes exactly where it really shouldn’t.

“Yep,” Danny responds, staggering out of the room, tripping over his own feet in his haste.

When he makes it down the stairs he leans against the wall just outside the kitchen, takes three deep breaths, jumps up to bolt the back door just in case who—or what—ever gave Handsome up there that injury is still lingering nearby. He swears silently, grabs a bottle of grappa, a glass, and the first aid kit off the wall next to the stove. He takes the stairs back up two at a time, and starts to breathe again when he sees the guy hasn’t moved.

He pours a shot of the grappa and holds it out to Tall, Dark, and Bloody. “It’s been a while since I patched something up this bad, I make no promises it won’t hurt, you might want to drink this first.”

The guy grunts and, having learnt his lesson, doesn’t shake his head but whispers “No, just do it.”

Danny downs the shot himself, mutters “Suit yourself,” and pulls the fabric away from the wound.

There’s a swallowed scream, followed by a panting breath, and Danny looks hesitantly up into hazel eyes pulsing with suppressed agony. He nods reassuringly, then gets to work, washing away what blood he can, pressing a dry cloth to the wound—which thankfully isn’t bad as it looked from the amount of blood, making him think probably the injury happened a while ago, and has just been steadily leaking for a good time... or it happened a distance ago and the idiot’s been moving around too much since. 

When Danny’s content the bleeding has at least slowed, he spreads a thick layer of ointment over it, covering it with gauze and then carefully but securely taping it in place.

He steps back to admire his handiwork—okay, and the object of said work—and grins.

“That wasn’t so bad.”

“I’ve had worse,” the guy mutters, and Danny doesn’t ask if he means injuries or bedside manners.

“I’m Danny, by the way,” he says, holding out another shot of grappa.

“Steve,” comes the grunted reply, as the alcohol is once again refused.

Danny sets the untouched shot down on the sink. “Look, Steve. You don’t have to tell me what this is all about, but let me at least get you comfortable. You don’t want booze, fine. What about some food?”

Steve nearly chokes on a laugh. “Actually, I’m starving. Food would be great.”

Danny smiles. He’s in his element now. “Great. But first, take off that shirt. It’s ruined. I’ll get you one of mine.”

And Danny ducks into his room to grab a clean tee shirt from his dresser, picking through and discarding three before landing on one that’s (a) likely to fit Steve, (b) not covered in wine, tomato, or grease stains, (c) not a faded concert tee because let’s face it he doesn’t need that level of masturbation fodder actually confronting him, he’s got a reasonably active imagination as it is, thanks.

What he comes up with probably isn’t the greatest solution, but it’ll have to do.

He’s evidently taken too long, as when he turns around, Steve’s right there, and he actually jumps, than covers it smoothly with an awkward laugh.  _Great._

So, yep, that’s a bare chest that will haunt his dreams—wet and otherwise—not to mention his waking hours.

“I, uh, here. It’s the best I could find, I think it’ll fit.” And he tosses the shirt at Steve, tempted to say something about covering himself before someone gets hurt. Which, obviously, would be dumb for like fourteen different reasons.

Steve smirks and pulls the shirt on with only a slight grimace. Then he looks down at it and laughs.

“Save a stallion, ride an Italian?”

“Yeah, it was, uh. A gag gift from a friend.”

“Alright,” Steve says softly, and no that’s not the sexiest voice Danny’s heard in months. Nope.

“Food?” Danny asks, voice rough and jagged like he’s gonna choke on it.

Steve nods.

Danny leads him not back down stairs to the restaurant’s kitchen, but over to his tiny kitchen nook. He gets out a plate of cold grilled marinated vegetables, puts it on the small table. Grabs a chunk of bread from the bread box, sets a knife out, thinking probably that’s dumb too, giving an obviously dangerous stranger a weapon. Steve clearly agrees with the assessment, as he looks quizzically up at Danny, over at the knife, and back up at Danny.

Ignoring the implicit judgment, Danny lifts the cover on the plate of cheese, chiseling off a chunk from the quarter-round, tossing it on the cutting board, adding a section of salami next to it, then carries it to the table and sits.

“I don’t usually cook for myself at night,” he explains as he spears a slice of squash, layers it on a piece of bread along with some of the cheese. Holding it out to Steve, he stops breathing when Steve swallows roughly as he takes the food from Danny’s hand, their fingers brushing.

“This is more cooking than I ever do,” Steve says around the bread-squash-cheese combo. “God that’s good.”

Danny chuckles as he assembles another—bread, meat, onion, tomato.

Steve groans softly at that one, licking his lips as though he’s chasing every last taste.

Danny reaches up to the shelf above the table, pulls down a bottle of wine. Unlabeled, it’s Giovanni’s cousin’s special blend. Rejected leftovers from their family vineyard, not enough of each to be worth bottling, not suited to a blend. A barely passable table wine for home use. But Danny loves it. It tastes honest. Hides behind no fancy aging process, no pretentious name, just a few months in a crate under the stairs. He pours a glass for himself and one for Steve. No stemmed wine glasses up here. Chipped and faded juice glasses that long ago sported roosters or grapes or olives, but only vague outlines remain.

Kind of like Danny’s life.

Steve sputters a little at the taste and Danny laughs.

“It’s a little young,” he explains, swirling the wine in his glass. “A little inexperienced.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Kind of like you,” he says pointedly.

“Me? Nah. I’m a bitter old man. It’s a peaceful life, but I’ve nothing to lose. I’m doubting you’re more trouble than a few blood stains and a ruined shirt. And if I’m wrong, ah well. It’s at least been interesting.”

Danny’s pulse in his ears belies his words, but he thinks he sounds sincere.

Steve chuckles softly and reaches for the knife. He cuts off two slices of bread, arranges tomatoes and crumbles of cheese on them, hands one to Danny, takes the other for himself.

“Interesting, huh?” He says by way of a toast. “Maybe you should get out more.”

Danny laughs. “Or maybe you should stay in more.”

They finish the wine and the cheese. Danny clears the rest away, grabs a blanket from the armoire in the hall, tosses it at Steve.

“The sofa is horribly uncomfortable, but I’m sure it’s nicer than the stone steps outside.”

Steve’s face goes flat at the reminder of his earlier prospects. “Thanks Danny,” he says heavily. “I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

“No you won’t,” Danny replies sternly. “Like I said, don’t tell me what happened, but I know enough to know you’d better lay low for a couple of days.”

Steve starts to protest but Danny waves it away.

“Don’t argue with an Italian,” he says lightly as he heads to his room. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

He hears Steve’s chuckle fade into a grunt as he lowers himself carefully onto the sofa, pulling the blanket around him with a sigh.

When Danny gets up in the night for a pee (he wasn’t kidding about the old man part), he hears soft snores interspersed with pained grunts, almost like Steve’s maybe reliving whatever led him to Danny’s door. Thinking he probably shouldn’t sleep as soundly as he does, Danny fades easily back to dreams of fierce hazel eyes and surprisingly soft hands.

  
He’s up earlier than he needs to be, and tries to convince himself it’s not because he’s eager to see his guest by the light of day. But when he makes two cups of espresso with his sturdy little machine and carries the cups over to the sofa, and Steve sits, the blanket falling off his shoulders and showing he’d taken Danny’s shirt off in the night, Danny knows it’s a lie.

_Damn, he could sit here all day_.

Steve smiles knowingly into his espresso. “So, you’re right,” he says on a contented sigh, breathing in the heat and caffeine as though it gives him life. Or at least that’s how Danny feels. “I really probably should stay and rest for a few days. Think you can put up with me for that long?”

“I’m sure you’ll prove useful,” Danny says before he can stop himself and point out to himself how dumb he sounds.

Steve evidently doesn’t mind stupid because he just laughs. “I’m decent in the dish washing department, but that’s about it,” he says as he finishes his espresso and sets the cup down, letting the blanket drop even further.

_I’m pretty sure that’s not at all true_ , Danny doesn’t say. Out loud anyway.

What he does say is “I’d better look at that,” head tilting toward the bandage which is now visible beneath the open blanket.

Steve nods, lets the blanket fall all the way off, and leans back, yanking none too gently at the edges of the tape.

“Whoa, whoa, stop. What are you some kind of masochistic Neanderthal?”

Steve chuckles, but drops his hands and lets Danny prod tenderly at the edges of the tape, grunting in approval when Steve doesn’t cringe.

“Not infected yet, that’s good,” he surmises, then carefully and slowly pulls the tape off, exposing the wound which does in fact look remarkably clean.

“Good,” Danny says. “Think you can stand long enough to shower? I’ll re-bandage it after.”

He’s pretty sure the images that start playing in his mind are enough to make him blush, but if Steve notices he doesn’t let on, just nods and moves to stand. Danny gets out of the way and watches as Steve, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, pads quietly to the shower.

“Use the towel on the back of the door,” Danny calls after him, then buries his face in his hands and groans. He’s never gonna last. Not like this. He gets up and heads to the kitchen to make breakfast. Because he may have convinced Steve to rest, but there’ll be no rest for Danny today. Not if he wants to get paid. And breakfast doesn’t make itself.

He heats butter in a skillet, cracks four eggs into it, lets them slowly sizzle then starts tossing in veg, cheese, and meat. By the time Steve turns up in the kitchen wearing only Danny’s towel, he’s got two plates of reasonably decent looking breakfast, complete with buttered slices of warmed bread and two more cups of espresso. Steve stands grinning at him, not the least uncomfortable in his current wardrobe situation.

“If this is the standard morning meal I may never leave,” he kids, sliding into his seat from the night before, and not waiting for Danny’s invitation to start devouring the food, which is probably for the best because Danny’s not at all sure language hasn’t broken.

Danny swallows around the groan that wants to escape his lips, sits down, and composes himself with a long slow sip of scalding hot caffeinated bliss.

“It’s just a simple rustic scramble. If you want to be impressed you should see me downstairs,” Danny stupidly suggests. Because the one thing that really shouldn’t happen is Steve being seen downstairs. This town is a lot of things. Subtle and lacking in gossip it is not. Given the expression on Steve’s face, Danny’s certain he’s more aware of the fact than Danny is himself.

By the time they’re finished eating Steve’s starting to look a little pale, so Danny herds him back to the sofa and goes to get the first aid kit to redo the bandage. He finds a pair of boxers he thinks might fit, and brings those as well. When he finishes with the tape he hands Steve the underwear.

“Here. I’ll wash your clothes in the machine, but there’s no dryer so it’ll take a while to air dry.”

Steve nods in thanks and leans back against the sofa looking less pale but more pained.

“You really should rest,” Danny says, something telling him that  _rest_  and  _Steve_  are not two words that often go together. “You probably shouldn’t turn on the TV, because my neighbors are nosy and will know something’s up. But there’s books to read if you like.”

“I’ll be fine, Danny. Go, I promise not to leave and I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

“I’ll bring you up some food later,” Danny says, hesitant to leave, not because he’s worried about what this gorgeous stranger might get up to in his absence, but for some more complicated reason he’s not going to pick apart. He’s pretty sure he knows anyway. 

But Danny pulls himself away, gets dressed and heads down to get things ready for the day. It’s not till he’s opened the kitchen door to the back that he realizes that pools of blood out there are liable to draw curiosity and he curses himself for not thinking of it sooner. Setting a pot of water to boil, he goes out to look at the damage only to see the pavement is perfectly spotless. Feeling reasonably confident he wasn’t just imagining the quantity of blood spilled, Danny checks three times. Not even a drop or the hint of a stain. 

He’s standing in the small courtyard, hands on hips, trying to imagine what might have happened when he sees a flutter of movement in the window across the way. Maddalena’s curtain is flapping in the perfectly still air.

_Shit_.

But he doesn’t have a lot of time to think about it. He has the morning crowd—mostly Giovanni’s type—to contend with. The village’s elderly but active men who like to imagine they still need a big feast before heading out to tend the vines. Granted some of them still do work the vineyards, with the advent of more advanced technology than a bucket and a pair of pruning shears. But those, they will tell you at great length, are always best.

Still, they won’t be parted from their morning pasta and vino. So Danny sets to work. 

Giovanni is the first to arrive, looking rather worse for the wear, prompting Danny to ask roguishly if he had a good night. He receives a somewhat grumbled response about Maddalena turning up on his stoop with one of her cordials late in the evening, and how that stuff can surprise a man with its strength. Danny grins, slaps him on the back in sympathy. He’s only too familiar with the shockingly strong liqueur the widow is known for. Cloyingly sweet, no doubt laced with something slightly less than legal, it’s as renowned for causing problems as it is for curing them. Nonetheless she insists it’s a tonic, and she also claims foreknowledge of your needing it. Decades of experience throughout the neighborhood have proven her right to such an extent that none in the village dare refuse. If she shows up at your door any time of day or night insisting you partake, you do. 

The point is, it’s common enough that Danny wouldn’t ordinarily blink, though something about the timing strikes him as fortuitous. But he’s soon swept up in the tide of boisterous men with surprisingly hearty appetites and completely unsurprising thirsts, and by the time he’s done with his morning regulars and sets to getting ready for the less boisterous, less local tourist crowd, he’s all but forgotten about the incident. 

  
The lunch crowd’s fairly mild most days. Sedate older couples on the mellower Tuscan holiday path—lesser known towns for a more authentic Italian experience. The occasional family, usually European rather than American, older children who don’t mind a vacation of gelato and pizza and an afternoon at the hotel’s pool while their parents taste olive oil and Parmesan and vin santo in the market square. 

Dinner is the realm of the locals—usually extended locals. Those who live outside the town walls where it’s cheaper, but fulfill the longing for tradition with nights spent in trattorias like Danny’s. 

In between lunch and dinner, Danny has a break. Ordinarily he gets his usual life business taken care of during those hours. Today, he’s more concerned with the not-so-ordinary life stuff happening upstairs in his apartment. 

He waits till it’s clear, his lunch staff headed off for the day, the evening shift not started yet. Then he packs up an assortment of dishes. Some of the gnocchi with pesto, peas, and prosciutto. Spinach ravioli with Gorgonzola and a pinch of nutmeg to cut the richness. And a tagliatelle with rustic meat ragu that’s Danny’s personal favorite. He cooks the sauce twice, once with wild mushrooms and Parmesan rinds which he strains out before the second round, adding crushed chili flakes and just a hint of marscapone along with the fresh herbs and red wine. 

Steve’s napping when he unpacks the food on the kitchen table, but his hunger wakes him as the smells fill the small space. He’s not bothered to put back on Danny’s shirt, and Danny wants to object but frankly the view is so lovely he can’t bring himself to say anything. He just holds out a plate to Steve, puts serving spoons in each of the containers, and steps back to watch.

“You eaten?” Steve asks him before he starts dishing up.

Danny nods briefly. “Help yourself. I’ll have a couple bites but not more,” and has to bite back a laugh when Steve practically lunges for the food. 

He starts with equal parts of each dish, then shoves the containers aside to make room for them to sit at the table. Danny gets out more bread and saws off thick slices for them both. He breaks pieces off of his and uses them to sop up some of the sauces. But mostly he watches Steve, who’s eating like he hasn’t seen food in days. And it’s gratifying, okay? To have his food appreciated this intensely. The locals expect it, the tourists are inured to it unless they’ve just begun their travels. But Steve. Steve seems as though he’s not been fed decent food for any sustained period of time in recent memory. 

He looks up, when he moves to dish up seconds, going first for the ragu, but when Steve catches Danny grinning because he’s pleased his favorite is top pick, he stills. 

“What?” He asks, mouth still partly full of his last bite of peas and prosciutto.

“Don’t eat real food much?” Danny asks softly. 

“You might say that,” Steve responds, hurt flashing in his almost green eyes before he looks back down and finishes refilling his plate.

“Well, that’s easily fixed,” Danny muses, kicking his feet out to lean back and thoroughly enjoy watching this gorgeous, albeit somewhat primal man savor his cooking. 

If Danny’s dinner menu that evening winds up affected by the man he’s swiftly growing accustomed to having in his home, well, no one but Danny knows it. He does a layered, roasted-vegetable and polenta-cake thing, with cheese to sprinkle or not, in case of vegans. And a thick, garlicky beef stew served over smashed fingerling potatoes, with a good dose of thick, fresh cream softening the savory, umami bite of the beef stock. 

As Steve eats the dishes later that night once Danny’s showered and changed into sweats, the sounds he makes, the gestures with which he attempts to express his delight. Well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Danny half thinks he could actually die happy if this is as intimate as he ever gets with the guy. 

After dinner they watch some TV. It’s in Italian, of course, but it’s Italian, so it’s easy enough to understand. It’s about love, passion, betrayal, desire, and of course, food. Danny translates some of the less obvious moments, or relays an especially sappy line, and as the level of grappa in the bottle that sits on the coffee table goes lower and lower, their postures relax more and more, till they’re sitting, essentially, in that classic date-night pose, Steve’s arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, Danny mere inches away on the narrow cushion. 

It’s nice. Even without the buzz of sexual tension which Danny’s fairly certain flows both ways, it’s simply nice to share an evening like this with another person. A warm body. And yes, it helps that it’s a body Danny very much would enjoy having in his bed. Or up against a wall for that matter. But it’s also just really nice to have another warm body in his house. It makes it feel so much more like a home. 

He’s vaguely tipsy, which he doesn’t really realize till he hears the light tinkle of the bell at the door. Not the downstairs entrance at the restaurant, but the upstairs one in the front. He stands abruptly, swaying slightly, putting a finger to his lips, and moves carefully down the hall to answer it.

“ _Ecco qui_ ,” Maddalena says, holding out a jar of something green.

Danny looks quizzically at her, glancing at the jar which is decidedly not a bottle of her cordial.

“ _Prendi questo_.” She grabs Danny’s hand and presses the cool jar into it. With her hands free, she reaches out to Danny’s side, rubs exactly where Steve’s wound is, holds up two fingers. “ _Due volte al giorno_.” And then winks, and walks away.

It sobers him up as swiftly as a punch to the face would have. 

She’s obviously seen Steve. Knows right where his injury is. Knows it’s bad enough she doesn’t trust Danny’s conventional medicine. And somehow... has adopted, or realizes Danny has, this stranger in their midst enough to grant him her traditional herbal medicine. It’s a mark, Danny’s always thought, of acceptance. Sometimes with the cordial there’s a decided element of the reality of close quarters living in a small walled town—disease spreads rapidly in warm climates. But there’s a sense of ownership as well. You only get the secret recipes if you live in the village. She’s even gone so far as to explain to Danny that the medicine only works if you belong here. Well, she’d said “ _magia_ ,” which technically translates as “magic,” but Danny’d assumed she meant her potions. 

Danny walks back in, shutting and locking the door, and when he turns around is again startled by Steve, who’s once more _right there_.

“Who was that?” He asks, voice quiet and deadly.

Danny sighs, shoves gently at Steve’s chest to get him to back off, thinks he must be drunker than he thought when he swears he feels electric pulses zap through his finger tips. 

“My neighbor, Maddalena. The village’s Old Wise Woman.” He holds out the jar of salve. “She brought you this.”

Steve, who even at Danny’s shove hasn’t stepped back at all, looks down to the jar in Danny’s hands. His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What is that?”

Danny shoves harder at Steve, feels the pulses again, gives up and shakes his head. 

“What is it with you? Don’t you trust people? She’s an herbalist—don’t tell her I called her that, but it’s a salve that’ll probably heal your wound faster than that conventional stuff I’ve been putting on it. She claims it’s magic, but it’s just old medicine.” 

“So she knows about me. Did you tell her?” Steve’s posture is stiff and taut like a bow pulled back too far.

“No, you idiot. She obviously saw you.” He sighs and steps around Steve to sit back down on the sofa. “Someone cleaned up the blood. I should have known it was her.” 

He remembers Giovanni’s hung-over state that morning and it all clicks into place—Giovanni’d not been ailing, he’d been put out of commission so he’d not see the blood, or rather, Maddalena cleaning up the blood. 

“She’s decided you belong here. This—” Danny holds out the jar. “It means she thinks you’re staying. I don’t know why. I never know why she thinks it, but she does.”

A memory from ages ago floats, unbidden, to the surface. Danny, in his first month after inheriting the failing restaurant from an uncle he’d not known he had, fresh off a disaster of a marriage and a crumbled career, struggling with the temperamental ovens, had burned himself badly. And he’d figured it was his loud swearing and possibly the throwing of pots and pans that had led her to him, but she’d let herself in to the kitchen, applied a soothing ointment to his burns, done something to the ovens Danny hadn’t understood, made him a salad of crisp, cool greens, and had told him, in simple Italian he could understand, that he was theirs now. That he belonged—as if her medicine had sealed his fate.

And it had felt that way. Everything had shifted that night. Nothing had ever been the same after. The recipes started to work, even the wine tasted different. His Italian had improved seemingly overnight, which made everything so much easier. And people started showing up even though he hadn’t technically opened. Now that he thinks about it, he never really did, the village just had decided his was a place to come to eat. 

And he’s never really looked back. 

Steve softens onto the sofa next to him.

“It’s just been a long time,” he says. “Since I could trust anyone.”

Danny wants to look at him, but doesn’t dare hope that Steve won’t see everything written in his eyes. “You trust me...?” It’s only partly a question. 

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Then you trust this.” And he hands Steve the salve. When Steve’s hand closes around the jar, their fingers touching, the electricity isn’t there, but when Danny looks up into Steve’s eyes, he sees why. It’s all there. Just like he’d been afraid Steve would see it in his eyes.

He’s not sure which of them does it, it’s not even like either of them move, it’s just that suddenly their lips are touching, and there are sighs and gasps and then it’s tongues and teeth and tiny sobs and huffs of breath like laughter. 

They shower together, Danny washing Steve gently but thoroughly, thinking as he does it that he’s washing off some of the hurt and bitterness that’s kept him from trusting anyone. And when Steve, in turn, washes Danny, it feels like he’s scrubbing some of the loneliness from his soul. When they come, foreheads pressed together, hands on each other in slick synchrony, they laugh like their release has lifted something heavy from them both. 

They dry each other after, tenderly, reverently almost, and when Danny spreads some of Maddalena’s salve onto Steve’s wound it feels like a promise, a bond, a vow. 

They sleep in Danny’s narrow bed, clinging to each other partly from necessity, partly from need. Several times they drift off in a light slumber, but wake, each time after only moments. Steve brushes the hair out of Danny’s eyes, Danny digs his fingers at the base of Steve’s skull, willing more of the tension away. They talk a little. Mostly meaningless things like favorite films, bands they’ve seen in concert. Steve doesn’t ask how Danny ended up here, and neither does Danny ask how Steve found his door, of all the doors in Tuscany. None of it matters. All that matters is they’re here, now, together. 

  
Danny wakes to Steve nuzzling gently at his ear, and as he responds, finds himself being pressed into his mattress, Steve grabbing for them both, and slowly, deliciously slowly, bringing them off together. 

After a shower that’s more practical than symbolic, they stand, close together, as Danny makes them coffee and breakfast—a simpler meal as they’re shorter on time than before, and Danny needs to get breakfast ready downstairs. 

“You sure I can’t help in the restaurant?” Steve asks, seeming reluctant to be parted from Danny, twining their fingers together in a surprisingly intimate gesture. Having decided once again to trust, he’s giving himself fully to it with an ease that Danny envies. 

Licking his lips and tasting caffeine, sugar, and Steve on them, Danny shakes his head. “First of all you still need to rest—ah ah, what did I say about arguing with an Italian? Second of all, how can you be sure it’ll be safe?”

Steve pulls Danny in for a kiss. “I like not arguing with you,” he whispers as he bites softly at Danny’s lips. “As for being safe, the only way I’ll know is to try. But I’ll do as you want and rest again today, but that salve really is magic. I feel a lot better.”

Danny doesn’t mean to look offended, but Steve reads it anyway, and how is that possible, to read someone so easily after so short a time?

“Of course, one more day being fed your amazing food and I’m sure I’ll be ready to fight an ox.”

He ends it by kissing Danny again, so he misses the eye roll his comment elicits, though the pinch to Danny’s ass that follows leaves Danny supposing he somehow knows anyway. 

“We don’t fight oxen here,” Danny mutters as he turns away. “You’re thinking of Canada.” And he heads down the stairs, where he’s unexpectedly met with his favorite waitress-slash-sous-chef. 

Ordinarily, Tani wouldn’t be in till the end of the Giovanni and Friends morning feast, to help clean up and to get ready for the lunch service. But there she is. Stirring the sauce on the stove. 

What’s even stranger is she looks surprised to see him.

“Nonna said you might need help this morning,” she says, shrugging, as Danny eyes her suspiciously while pouring himself a cup of espresso from the stove top percolator she’s thankfully already set. 

He waits. Sipping. Knowing she’ll break.

“Okay fine, she thought maybe you’d be late, maybe you’d be a bit... preoccupied.” She sighs, throws a towel at Danny, which he catches, and then she grins at him. “You may as well let him at least in the kitchen. He must be going batty up there alone.”

Danny sighs, says “Steve,” without bothering to raise his voice or look over his shoulder in the direction of the doorway, and not breaking eye contact with Tani.

Two beats, not even, and Steve steps out from the shadow of the stairs. “How’d you know...?” He asks, moving closer to Danny, as though he’ll feel safer by proximity. 

“Call it a hunch,” Danny says, resignedly. “Steve, meet Tani. Tani, Steve. Tani’s nonna is the one who made the salve.”

Tani shakes Steve’s hand, grinning hugely, then looks back at Danny. “Nonna said he was handsome, but oh my god.”

Steve blushes adorably and stammers something about being  _right here_.

“Shush,” Danny scolds. 

“Technically,” Tani says, ignoring Danny in favor of talking now directly to Steve. “I’m not actually related to her, but she took me and my brother in when our folks died, and she considers us family.”

Steve’s lips form a slight smirk. “I can see how that might happen.”

Tani laughs. “Yes, she’s claimed you already. Or, rather, she’s decided you belong with Danny. And I’d say...” she looks between them, which considering Steve’s moved so close he’s touching Danny without actually touching him, maybe gives something away. “Yep, I’d say she guessed right. She usually does.”

Danny isn’t exactly thinking clearly—he’s a bit shaken by the fullness of Tani’s revelation—but if he  _had_  been thinking about it, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have expected what comes next. Because Steve slides his arm around Danny and pulls him even closer. It’s maybe not an over-the-top gesture as far as such things go, but it absolutely is a clear statement, and Tani takes it as such.

“She’ll be delighted to have been right.” And with a smile she sets back to work, prepping the breakfast pasta.

“Let me help,” Steve says in Danny’s ear, making him shiver from the contact.

“Fine,” Danny replies, giving up all hope of having any control of this situation—like so many things in his life. “Here, fold these.” And he hands Steve a stack of cloth napkins, showing him how to turn the corners in, tucking a fork and spoon in the little pocket. 

Steve grins in response and Danny briefly considers the level of contentment reached with napkin folding by a man so recently occupied in an endeavor that left him bleeding puddles on the pavement. 

Steve lingers in the kitchen while they take care of the morning service, but Danny lets Tani deal with clean up in favor of going upstairs with Steve for a fuller meal before he’s run off his feet with the weekend tourist crowd. 

Tani doesn’t need to know that food isn’t exactly on the upstairs menu.

  
With only the barest prompting from Danny, Steve naps during the lunch service, is roused for some actual food—gnocchi with Danny’s favorite ragu, submits to having his bandage checked to be sure after their  _ahem_  activities, and offers to help with dinner. 

Danny sits him on a stool in the kitchen, out of the way of the heaviest traffic, with two bowls and a bag of peas for shelling. 

“Ever done this?” He asks, and is rewarded with an eye roll that suggests his own methods of response have already been studied and adopted. 

“Fifteen years of KP duty, at your disposal.”

It doesn’t surprise Danny, more confirms suspicions, and they share a moment of eye contact that says more details will be forthcoming. 

More details, it turns out, come on their own not much later, in the form of Tani’s friend and Danny’s extra weekend waitstaff, who arrives for the dinner service.

“Commander,” he says, halting abruptly in the middle of the kitchen and stopping just short of saluting Steve.

“At ease, Reigns,” Steve mutters, then gestures the young man over to him. 

Danny and Tani trade curious expressions, then watch as the two evidently military men talk in tense but hushed tones. After a short time Junior turns to Danny with an apologetic expression.

“I have to take care of something important. I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch if timing wasn’t crucial.”

He looks from Junior to Steve, who looks guardedly back at him. He knows Steve’s not going to ask for favors, but Danny wishes he would.

“Yeah, of course, get out of here,” Danny says, patting Junior on the back as he turns to walk him to the back door. “Be careful,” he says. Not sure how he knows, but certain he’s right, that wherever Junior is going, it’s not exactly for a walk in the park.

Junior winks and grins. “I’ll be fine. I’m just glad to know Commander McGarrett’s safe. I owe him a lot. Wouldn’t have made it in the SEALs without him. Thank you,” he says, fortunately missing that he’s just imparted crucial news to Danny, but before Danny can say anything else, Junior’s slipped out the door, and how's Danny never noticed it before? How stealthy the young guy is. Glancing over at Steve, he gets a quick shake of the head and a mouthed “later,” then Steve’s back to shelling peas like nothing unusual has happened, and prepping vegetables in an obscure Tuscan trattoria is his life’s ambition. 

Tani shrugs, then gets back to work on the meat. 

Nothing else for it, and with at least Steve’s helping hands in the kitchen, Danny’s free to take over what Junior would have done, and goes to get the tables ready for the dinner service. 

They don’t do too badly, all things considered, being short staffed for the weekend rush. Turns out Steve wasn’t kidding about his kitchen experience, and it may have been military canteen food, but the Navy always has been known for a certain extra flair to their meals, and even Navy SEALs have to eat—and they often have to fend for themselves. 

The point is, Steve knows his way around a knife as a tool for something other than defending himself.

Oh. Yeah. And the point is also evidently that Danny’s been sleeping with a renegade Navy SEAL. 

He doesn’t feel so bad about that though because he’s pretty sure his sous chef has one of her own.

They find a moment in the dining room together for a whispered _Did you know?_ and _Not a clue_ followed by more shrugging and vague reassurances that somehow this is all perfectly normal and will resolve itself in a way that somehow will make sense. 

The rest of the weekend proceeds much the same. Steve doing considerably more than he probably should. Danny sleeping less than he usually does, and minding not at all in the least. And Tani growing ever more anxious at the absence of Danny’s weekend help, who he’s now positive not only knows more about Steve than Danny does, but is more to Tani than just a friend. 

  
It’s Monday night just about closing before Junior shows up. Tired and dirty but otherwise intact, and with news for Steve they decline to share for “security and safety” reasons—Danny almost expects Steve to say “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you”—but evidently it’s the best that could be hoped for and it also means he can breathe more easily than he has in a very long time. 

“I’m free now,” Steve tells Danny later that night as they sit with a tray of veggies and cheese with glasses of the house red, the TV showing some classic Italian film in the background, sound turned down because it’s late and Steve wouldn’t understand anyway. “I can go anywhere, do anything.”

“Yeah?” Danny asks, his heart in his throat. “Got any plans?”

“I haven’t ever let myself think past this moment,” he replies, knee bumping softly up against Danny’s. 

“Huh. Well, it’s been nice having extra help in the kitchen....” Danny looks at the wine swirling in his glass. 

“Oh? In the kitchen, huh?” Steve’s voice is warm, amused. And Danny’s already used to it. Used to him. He’s terrified to look up. “Mmmm,” Steve prompts, when Danny says nothing. “Anywhere else?” 

Steve’s asking leading questions, not because he needs an answer. He knows. Danny’s certain he does. But he looks up. Directly into those hazel eyes. So trusting, now they’ve started. So open, so unguarded, now they haven’t reason not to be. 

“Here,” Danny says. It’s barely a whisper. “Right here.”

Steve’s lips spread slowly into a grin. “Good,” he says, simply, plainly. “Then that’s my plan.”

And that, evidently, is that. He pulls Danny close for a kiss, and it tastes like cheese and tomatoes and wine. And it feels like more than Danny ever imagined feeling. More than he ever dreamed of having.

“Thanks for picking my doorstep to bleed on,” Danny says, into the kiss, and Steve chuckles, deepens the kiss, and on the TV, the leading man runs to his lover, sweeps her into his arms... and the movie fades into credits. 


	8. Under an Australian Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Australian Veterinarian AU no one asked for....  
> (Added bonus: letting Steve have Alex’s accent.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a pretty big soft spot for Aussie dramas, and I recently watched “Rain Shadow.” Which if you like country vets and barren Australian scenery, you totally should watch.

The sun is just barely up and already it’s sweltering. He lets the door bang shut behind him as he takes his coffee out to the porch, lowers himself gingerly to sit on the steps, in the shade of the tree that looks as though if it could talk it would complain about the heat as well. His usual assortment of dogs, having rushed outside ahead of him, gather in their favored places. Some under the tree in the dry dirt, some against the building where there is still some shade, others at his side. He strokes bellies and scratches ears idly as he sips his too-sweet-for-his-own-good morning cup of  _dear god help me get through this day_  and runs through his list of appointments.

Check on the new stock at Crowea Manor, make sure Lucas’s cattle are doing okay in their new barn, and just a quick drive by the Kilgour place to see if the horses are looking any better after their recent bout of illness.

He’ll have to cut his usual clinic hours shorter to get it all done, but probably no one will mind. Most of them know it happens. And there isn’t anyone new in town that he knows of. Of course, he hasn’t had tea with Olivia yet this week, so his gossip isn’t perfectly up to date. But that will soon change. Thinking of how that little ritual has become so meaningful for him starts to stir old demons from his past, so he thinks just that it’ll be nice to be fed and given some care and attention, then squares himself to return to his more brutal reality.

Stretching out his sore muscles, Danny lets himself fall back against the already hot deck, not minding so much as the heat seeping into his aching back actually feels helpful. Too late to not to think  _I’m getting too old for this_ , he sighs, takes a deep breath that doesn’t really do much to build his courage, and heads back inside to start his day.

The dogs all return to their respective pens—some boarders, some patients, some he’s just ended up with over the years. Matilda, as usual, refuses to leave his side, so he makes sure to grab water for her as well in his kit before tossing out food for the rest and heading for the truck, not bothering to make a note on his “clinic hours” sign. Everyone knows his mobile number anyway.

Declan’s down in the gulley fussing with the irrigation again as Danny pulls up the drive to the paddock. He waves Danny on then resumes his work, which means one of the ranch hands will be with the sheep. Danny sighs. Declan means well, but he has an awful propensity to hire people in need of second chances who are more probably on their thirteenth second chance than their first.

So when he comes to a stop at the gate, letting Matilda out to enjoy being an actual sheep dog (not that she’s terribly good at it), he steels himself with several deep breaths and tries to put on his “understanding country vet” tone, not his “I used to be a vet to puffy pampered pooches and you’re an idiot by the way” tone.

But then he looks up and thinks maybe Declan isn’t such a fool after all. Because this new guy may still be an idiot, but at least he’s pretty. Really pretty. Too pretty for his own good, or certainly Danny’s.

He gets a good few moments of drinking the guy in before Matilda, attention seeker that she is, has made her presence known, and okay, it doesn’t lower his estimation of the guy that he’s instantly bending down to scratch at her ears, that damned Aussie accent floating across the still air, into Danny’s ears and straight to his gut. He’s been here long enough, one might hope he’d be used to it, and once he knows a person he’s usually okay. But for some reason this guy's accent is like fire on Danny’s skin.

_Try to be a professional, Williams. Just try_.

He’s started walking over when the guy straightens up and his eyes collide with Danny’s, and Danny’s never really gotten that thing about “at first sight” or the whole “his smile reached his eyes,” and okay that makes it seem like he reads a lot of romance novels, which maybe isn’t entirely untrue but it’s not like there’s a whole lot out here in the Australian countryside with which to occupy a single man for vast swaths of time.

Especially if he’s not particularly keen on hunting. Or knitting, for that matter.

The point is, there’s definitely something in the way of a spark or a jolt or a shock or something with voltage that passes between them. And it’s not fleeting, either. It lingers. And simmers. Or sizzles. So much so that Danny’s reluctant to shake his hand.

“I’m Steve, you must be the Doc Williams I’ve heard so much about.”

And of course. If Declan’s taken the guy in, Olivia will have adopted him, fed him food as well as gossip, like she does with Danny.

A tiny part of Danny flashes in jealousy, and he doesn’t bother sorting out if it’s Olivia he’s feeling territorial  _over_ , or jealous  _of_.

Danny’s hand meets Steve’s, and he’s surprised there’s not an actual spark, though Steve’s fingers do seem to tingle just a little in Danny’s as he finally finds his words and replies.

“You have me at a disadvantage. Been with the Crowleys long?”

“Naw, just the past few. Down from her sister’s place up north. Came with the sheep.”

Ah. Of course. Olivia might have mentioned something about a friend of her sister’s coming along with the new flock. He hadn’t thought much of it, to be honest.

He’s thinking of it now. Because it means Steve’s  _not_  the new hired hand.

Not that he was enjoying the concept or anything.

“Of course. So how long are you around for?”  _Good one, Daniel. Because that doesn’t sound like a line. Geez_.

Steve either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, though. He smiles, and Danny’s tummy flutters in response.

“Oh, for a good while. Olivia’s persuaded me to get these lot settled, and make sure there’s someone can keep ‘em in line. Declan’s not the best at finding help.” He says that last as though it’s a secret, one he probably ought not be sharing.

Danny kind of sputters in response, and Steve’s grin just grows. Dang, the guy can smile.  _Shit_.

They stand there grinning for a little too long for it to be anything other than slightly weird, but the sheep don’t seem to mind, and Matilda is clearly taken with the guy, so Danny just lets it be.

“So, d’ya have any questions for me?” Steve asks, waving at the sheep in some sort of vague acquiescence that they maybe should get down to business.

“You’ll have records, of course,” Danny says, opening up his kit to get out the usual diagnostic tools. There’s no paperwork Danny would trust without doing his own exam, but the presence or absence of official paperwork tells him a lot.

Steve pulls some creased papers out of his back pocket. “Wouldn’t have moved ‘em without it.”

Danny gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at, but rules are rules for a reason, and he’s seen enough vets brought down by their lack of adherence to them. Being this isolated is no excuse, in his book, to think bending the rules is an appropriate method by which to run one’s practice.

He’s pretty sure Steve just read all that on his face.

Danny looks over the paperwork then hands it back. “Well, they look good,” he says, climbing over the fence easily from years doing it, and starts checking them out.

“Nice and plump when we started,” Steve amends. “They’ll fatten back up easily once they feel at home.”

Danny chuckles, smacking one of the sheep on her flank to get her to budge over. “Oh yeah? And what will that take?”

“Ohh, same as any creature. Good bed, good food, clear drink.” He pauses thoughtfully. “View of the sky overhead, warm body at night.”

And maybe it’s just Danny’s wishful thinking, but that sounds like a line, too.

“Will they get it?” He asks. Not intending it to be an insinuation.

“Oh, I think so,” Steve replies, eyes twinkling.

Trying his best to ignore the twist in his gut that wants to take the equally insinuating response at face value, Danny tries to focus on the practical side of things. “Declan’s really wanting to make a go of it with the sheep, so I hope they settle in nicely.” Danny looks around him, reasonably content the rest of the flock is in much the same shape.

Steve’s still petting Matilda intermittently, as she makes half hearted attempts at subduing the sheep, returning to his side frequently as if to ask him how she’s doing.

“No dog?” Danny asks. “You drove them down... how?”

Steve pauses his petting, a shadow passing over his face. “On horseback. Sometimes the old ways are best. But I lost my best dog Joey along the way.”

“I’m so sorry,” Danny sighs, dusting his hands off on his pant legs, and, taking a swallow of his water, leans against the fence post watching Steve—who seems a little lost all of a sudden, his swagger fading at the memory of his dog.

Danny looks at Matilda, and his heart fills. She may be no good with the sheep, but she knows what she’s doing with a human. He remembers what he was like when she found him, new to the country, practice and his life in utter disarray... but that’s not a memory to get lost in right now.

“Look,” he says softly, wanting to reach out to Steve, and not daring. “I know no dog could replace him, but I wind up with a bit of a menagerie, between strays, abandoned pups, I don’t even know. And I’m not saying any of them’ll be great sheep dogs, but you’re welcome to try.”

A slow smile takes over Steve’s face, chasing the momentary gloom away. “That’d be great,” he says. “I’ll come by and take a look.”

“Great,” Danny says, probably little too loudly, by the way Matilda turns towards him, ears up.

“Great,” Steve echoes, giving Danny the sense once again he’s being laughed at.

  
Danny half expects Steve to show up that afternoon during clinic hours, but he doesn’t. Probably he’s busy with the sheep. Or helping Declan. Or listening to Olivia go on about her bees, tasting her sublime creations. Licking sweet honeyed butter off his fingers....

Instead, Danny gets a sick lizard, a pregnant cat, and a Papillion puppy who definitely is not suited to country living.

He sits, later that night, on the deck, under the stars, and he muses about how different the sky looks out here away from the city lights, than it does back in Sydney. Back where his ex-wife now runs his veterinary practice with his ex-partner.

He consoles himself by imaging a certain warm body next to his, making do with granting Matilda her evening belly rub.

“A view of the sky, and a warm body at night, huh girl? That make you feel at home?”

She seems to agree, but doesn’t ask Danny what would make  _him_  feel at home, which is probably good, as he’s not sure he wants to admit the answer to that.

  
The next day he’s called out to a problematic calving, not back till after clinic hours, filthy, exhausted, and starving. He pulls up to his place, ready to hose himself down then probably fall asleep in the bath, only to see Olivia’s truck parked under the tree, Steve sitting idly on the tailgate, picnic basket at his side, grin on his face far too knowing, far too sly.

“Mrs Taylor called Olivia, said you’d need feeding after the day you had. I volunteered to bring you dinner.”

“I’ll, uh...” Danny gestures down his body, covered in cow filth and blood.

“Yep, get cleaned up. I’ll wait.”

“You may as well come inside,” Danny says, trying for easy camaraderie, and desperately hoping he can keep the words  _or you could shower with me_  from escaping his lips.

Steve jumps lightly down from his perch, grabs the basket, and follows Danny into the house, as eagerly as one of his dogs.

“Help yourself to a beer,” Danny calls over his shoulder, he hopes with nonchalance, then hits the shower with a force he’d not thought himself capable of, as exhausted as he’d been not five minutes ago.

It can’t be more than fifteen minutes, Danny’s back in the kitchen, clean, comfortable in sweats, stomach actually grumbling, now it’s realized food is in the offering. He sees the basket abandoned on the kitchen table, two beers sitting by it, hears soft rustling and whines, and those dulcet Australian tones coming from the kennel room. So he opens both beers and takes them with him.

Steve’s let Matilda out, and he’s talking to her as though he’s asking her opinion about which of the dogs is most likely to be of use to him. Leaning against the doorframe, Danny watches, taking a sip of his beer, holding the other out to Steve when he senses his presence and turns to grin up at him, and that doesn’t set Danny’s tummy to churning from something other than a lack of food. No, not at all.

“Ta,” Steve says as he takes the beer. “Matilda here was tellin’ me her thoughts on the other dogs.” He pauses for a sip, then scratches behind her ears, just exactly how she loves it best, and really Danny probably shouldn’t find it so incredibly sexy, that Steve’s figured that out already. “She’s got a pretty high opinion of herself.”

Danny laughs, wants to move closer. Use the excuse of petting his dog to accidentally on purpose touch Steve, but he doesn’t. “She thinks she can control the sheep, but she always winds up running _with_ them. So if being a sheepdog meant being  _one with the sheep_  in some kind of transcendental way, yeah, she’d be a great asset.”

“Nah,” Steve chides softly to the obviously smitten dog. “That won’t do, will it.”

Danny turns to the other cages, thoughtful. “Taz might be decent at it. He’s never tried, but he’s still young, you might get him to learn. He’s mostly shepherd from what I can tell. Something else mixed in there at some point, probably wild dog of some kind or another. Part of a litter that got dumped on my porch, he was one of the ones that made it, but he wouldn’t be parted from Matilda. Now he’s older though, I think he might.”

Steve turns to eye the dogs behind him, gaze settling on one he’s obviously thinking is Taz. Danny’s not surprised he’s guessed right.

“Go on, let him out. See how you go.”

Steve shifts so he can reach the lock, lifts it, and is knocked backwards by an overly enthusiastic Taz.

“Eh! Easy there boy,” Steve chuckles, managing somehow to save his beer, wrapping his arm around the bundle of wagging fur.

“Well, I think he likes you alright,” Danny says, amused, and yes, pleased. He likes Taz, but he’s too rambunctious to go with Danny on calls, and Danny hasn’t the patience to train him. He’s a vet, not a dog trainer, as he’s pointed out to himself and others on more than one occasion. But he thinks Steve could manage it. Be the kind but firm disciplinarian Taz needs.

And that is absolutely not a thought that gives Danny other ideas.

Fortunately his belly picks that moment to let out an especially embarrassing growl of hunger, and Steve hides his laughter in Taz’s fur, managing to suggest they eat before Danny turns into a beast.

They take the food out front, sit on the steps of the porch, basket between them, dogs on either side, and work their way through the fabulous meal Olivia’s packed, tossing scraps to their canine companions, against all training protocols and Danny’s own medical advice.

She’s wily, is Olivia. There’s nothing overtly romantic in the picnic, but somehow it manages to feel as though it is. Sauces sweetened by her beloved bees, fruits that compliment the taste of honey perfectly, enough meat for two hard laboring people, but veg and carbs to balance it out so it’s not some obvious attempt at being a “working man’s meal.” There’s licking of fingers, but also of spoons. And it’s all washed easily down with a couple more beers. Heavy enough to leave them relaxed, sated, and not wanting to move, but not so hearty they fall into a drowsy stupor.

They chat easily, about how Danny came to live in Australia (falling head over heels will do that), how he ended up out here in the actual middle of nowhere (he’s not the first to flee the city due to a trampled heart—he won’t call it a broken heart, both because it’s too dramatic and not dramatic enough), how he became a vet in the first place (too many episodes of “All Creatures Great and Small” as a kid). And they talk about Steve. How he left the military (when he disagreed one too many times with his commanding officers), how he ended up on his aunt's friend’s farm (training horses and wrangling sheep because keeping himself physically exhausted keeps him from dwelling on his losses—mother in an accident when he was a teenager, cop father ten years back, best friend in an op gone wrong just last year). Danny guesses but doesn’t say his friend’s unnecessary death is likely the reason Steve left the service, but he finds it softens him even more towards the man who’s swiftly working his way into both Danny’s heart, and those of his dogs.

It’s late when Steve finally heads back to Crowea Manor, leaving Taz for now, but agreeing they’ll give him a try—with Danny there just in case it all goes wrong—one day that week. 

It doesn’t go wrong. In fact, it mostly goes surprisingly right. Taz is a bit excited by the sheep to be much good at first, but he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea, so Danny says keep him and see how he does, and Steve looks at Danny like he’s offered him the moon. 

They fall into something of a routine after that. Steve knows, via Olivia and the town grapevine, the days that have been especially rough for Danny, and those days he shows up with a basket packed by Olivia right as Danny arrives home. Or sometimes Steve comes during clinic hours, with some scratch or other Taz’s gotten in his quest to become an actual sheep dog, and they stay for beers when Danny’s day is done.

Some days Danny and Matilda drive by Declan’s flock and if Steve’s working with Taz, they’ll stop and watch, Matilda on occasion attempting to undo all of Steve’s hard work and turn Taz into a lazy disobedient oaf. He was never very good at loafing anyway though, and he even manages to teach her a few tricks, but she tires after not very long and resumes her own personal quest for the best ear scratches and belly rubs (Danny’s never quite sure if he wins, or if Steve hasn’t supplanted him in the championship role). 

Some nights they meet at the pub, have a few beers, play billiards or darts, or just sit and chat about their day. Some nights they cook for each other. Just a salad and a couple steaks on the grill—or “barbie” as Danny absolutely refuses to call it, much to Steve’s amusement and delight, and he uses the word as often as possible. 

Days off don’t come very frequently for either of them, but when they do, they take the dogs swimming, sitting on the edge of the dock of the swimming hole themselves, feet dangling in but not more because Danny doesn’t love the water and Steve says he’s had enough.  

It’s comfortable, it’s easy, it’s nice. 

And it’s temporary.

Because the date for Steve’s return back north may be undecided. But the fact of his departure hangs over them like a storm cloud that never breaks. 

So they keep things light. There’s always a thread of teasing, especially in Steve’s manner. And that spark of attraction never fades, not even a little. They just... kind of get used to it. There’d be no point acting on something that would be so fleeting. Neither of them has the temperament for anything other than Everything. It doesn’t even need saying. 

By the time Steve’s been there for a month, they’re spending most of their free time together. 

By the time it’s been two months, Danny realizes his relationship with Steve is more of a relationship than his marriage had been. 

Steve knows how Danny likes his steak, he knows not to put the dressing on the salad, even if it’s Danny’s favorite. He knows how long Danny takes to shower after a calving, how long after surgery. He knows Danny drinks beer after a hard day, wine after a good one, and whiskey when he’s lost a patient. Steve knows Danny hates the porridge he eats for breakfast everyday, but knows he refuses anything else. He knows he takes his coffee way too sweet, and doesn’t try to convince him otherwise.

Just about the only thing Steve doesn’t know is what side of the bed Danny sleeps on. 

Danny knows substantially less about Steve. 

But he can tell from one look the kind of day he’s had, he can hear in Steve’s tone how fast he needs to drive to get to the sheep to treat an injury or illness, and he can read from Steve’s posture when they need to eat dinner on the sofa watching TV rather than sitting outside under the stars. 

The days they _don’t_ see each other become less and less frequent till they don’t even exist. 

It’s just over three months gone when Olivia asks Danny into the house for tea, rather than offering it on the porch as she usually does. 

He looks down at his dusty clothes, knees coated in manure and likely blood, hands filthy even though he’s washed them.

“Just to the kitchen,” she says encouragingly. “It’s seen worse.”

She tells him, over tea and her signature honey biscuits, that Declan wants to ask Steve to stay. Kilgours have found out he trains horses as well as wayward sheep dogs, and they’ve offered him a part time job working with theirs, now they’re healthy again thanks to Danny’s ministrations. If Declan lets Steve stay in charge of the new flock and adds his others as well, it’d be enough to keep him here. 

She just wants to be sure it’d be okay with Danny.

He hasn’t seen this coming, and he’s not prepared to react. As he stumbles over his words, he sees satisfaction sparkle in her eyes.

“I thought I’d read that right,” she says warmly, laying her hand on his arm. “I’m glad.” 

They finish their tea in silence, and Danny drives home still stunned. 

  
It’s early the next morning, when he’s just brewed his coffee, stirring slightly less than his usual amount of sugar in, not really needing it as his very blood is still buzzing with the news, when he hears a car pull up. He walks to the door and watches as Steve and Taz jump out, both striding purposefully towards the door, not realizing Danny’s already there. He opens the door just as Steve’s about to knock, and barely has time to register the need flashing in those already so familiar hazel eyes, before he’s being swept into Steve’s arms, lips finding Danny’s like they’ve only been barely managing to hold back from this for three whole months. 

They kiss till the dogs almost knock them over with their own excitement, not understanding, but obviously approving of the sentiment. 

“I’m staying,” Steve finally says, breathless, as though it explains everything. Which it does, of course. 

Danny grins, biting his lower lip, already missing the feel of Steve’s on his. “I heard.”

He doesn’t say _move in with me_. He doesn’t have to. 

He does put the “no clinic today” sign in the window, calls Lucas to say he’ll check on the calves tomorrow, and takes Steve by the hand, so he can learn what’s really the only important thing left—which side of the bed Danny sleeps on. 


	9. Better Than You Think (Ninja Gym AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ninja Warrior AU
> 
> Danny’s rehabbing from yet another knee injury, and somehow he agrees to do it at a ninja gym. Which is fine, except for this really hot, really show-offy former Navy SEAL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another story I’d been convinced there was no way I could write. I’ve seen one episode of the ninja warrior show. At a pizza parlor. While on a road trip. So, uh, grains of salt, please, over my terms and use of the theme... you might have to squint. Or look the other way altogether. And probably this isn’t quite what you had in mind.... But I had sooo much fun.... So, thank you, rungirl60 and ArtichokeDip77, for asking. I really hope you enjoy it. 

It started with a dare.

To be fair, most of the things he’d gotten himself into that had been really dumb had been because of dares. Mostly because he was an idiot and couldn’t resist a challenge, especially when it was leveled at his abilities, aimed at his perception of his badassness.

This one, though. This one he blamed almost entirely on his best friend and partner on the force, his co-parent, his support, and the jerk who liked to rile him up.

He wasn’t even sure why Lou had started hanging out at the gym. His idea of a good workout was 18 holes of golf where you forego the cart to walk and carry your own clubs.

But it was the third time in as many years that Danny’d blown his knee out (only one of those was Lou’s fault), and it was getting to the point he clearly needed to do something differently. And when his PT, an admittedly adorable petite brunette with an obvious crush on Danny, had suggested the Ninja Warrior gym, well some stupid part of his brain-that-resideth-not-in-his-head had puffed up and said something completely inane like “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to do that,” which of course was an absolute lie.

He and Lou did sometimes watch the show. It was great tension relief after a rough case gone bad—they loved to make fun of the idiots who were stupid enough to subject themselves to such ridiculousness.

Which, actually, was probably why on his third visit to said gym, Lou had somehow managed to tag along.

He mostly behaved himself as he helped Danny with his routine. Until they saw  _him_.

“Who the hell is that guy?” Lou asked, in typical Lou style—aka neither quiet nor subtle.

Danny sighed. “That. Is the star of the gym. The island’s ninja golden boy, former Navy SEAL, and the next champion, if the gossip around the gym is to be believed.”

He tried to sound as snarky and sarcastic as he could. Adding extra layers to keep Lou’s natural proclivity to poke and prod at Danny somewhat at bay. Because this was one direction Danny was certain he didn’t want Lou poking.

Lou turned to look at him, dark eyes sparking with something far more dangerous than amusement.

“You should totally go up against him.”

And it didn’t help that Danny heard the alternate meaning to Lou’s words before he registered what was probably more realistically his actual meaning.

“Uhhh,” he stammered, faltering with the equipment, and having to stop his routine and sit up, catch his breath.

“Come on, Danny, you know you need the motivation. You can’t just rehab to get back on the field at Charlie’s Little League games. You need a bigger target. Take down this egotistical jackass—how’s that for motivation?”

Danny looked where Lou had gestured. To where the tall, lithe, admittedly attractive and-he-knows-it guy was essentially posing with his ninja teammates, all of whom looked like they were in all probability ex-special forces. The kind of guy who typically drove Danny bonkers. The kind of guy he really wouldn’t mind taking down a notch. Or, you know, taking  _all the way down_.... Um.

Lou was watching him closely, that damn all-knowing expression clear on his face. He said nothing. Looked back at the guys on the other side of the gym. And back at Danny.

“Yeah, okay,” Danny said, his tone more certain than he felt, regret flooding his entire system instantaneously. He laid back down on the bench, gesturing for Lou to resume spotting him. “I’ll do it.”

  
It became something of an obsession after that.

Danny started spending all his spare time at the gym. Doing his PT routine, yes, but also slowly branching out to the slightly absurd ninja skills obstacle course things. And the thing is... they were actually kind of not all that bad. At first he felt a little ridiculous, but at the same time there was something oddly freeing about it. Something that satisfied some unremembered part of himself that was still the daring kid he’d once been. It was totally a crazy side bonus that it also forced him to be very keenly aware of his body, of his positioning... of all of his limbs at the same time, and of how he controlled them from his core.

He soon started to realize that full-body awareness (not something that came naturally to him) was probably the key to not repeatedly re-injuring his bad knee.

And also. It was kinda sexy.

He found working the apparatuses strangely fulfilling in a primal, and yeah, okay, almost sexual way. And once he’d worked up to running the full course (slowly, mind you) he found that by the time he finished he felt a little turned on and yet also satisfied.

It was only his second time completing the full course successfully when he wound up in the locker room to shower and change, and realized he needed to calm the heck down before he hit the showers. So he sat on the bench, towel artfully draped across his lap, and idly checked his phone, drank his sports drink.

Which of course is when Navy SEAL ninja guy came strutting in.

The air turned electric. Danny felt his skin prickle. He tried to ignore the guy, but he obviously had other ideas. He just kind of stood there, openly watching Danny. It was hugely compelling and utterly uncomfortable at the same time.

“You’re better than you think.”

Danny looked up. “Well I don’t think I suck.”

The guy smirked at that as though he took it the way Danny didn’t mean it.

“No, it’s more than that. I’ve been watching you. You  _get_  the course. Not a lot of people do.”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “What’s there to get? It’s a stupid obstacle course.”

“Mmmm. It isn’t and you don’t think that.”

Danny thought about arguing back. The egotistical idiot practically begged it of him, the way he made Danny’s blood fizz. And, okay, maybe not in an altogether awful way.

“Train with me,” the guy offered, when it became clear Danny wasn’t going to reply.

“ _What_?”

“Wednesday mornings. Seven. I have the place to myself for an hour. Join me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re better than you think.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. Why would you want to help me?”

He just smiled. “See you Wednesday.” And he turned and left the locker room.

  
So of course on Wednesday, Danny showed up at the gym at seven am. Surprisingly alert, considering the hour. There was one truck in the lot, and when Danny pulled into the spot next to it, the driver door opened and out the ninja SEAL jumped, several steps above  _surprisingly_   _alert_. He grinned at Danny, and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Glad you came,” he said, his typical exuberance evidently not muted by the early hour.

“Uggh,” Danny grunted, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. “I’m Danny, by the way,” he said, having realized he couldn’t just keep calling the guy _Navy Ninja SEAL_ , as tempting an idea as that was.

“Steve,” came the reply, as he opened the door to the gym, punching the key code in with the accustomed ease of one who’s done it hundreds of times. “This is gonna be great.”

And remarkably, he wasn’t wrong.

Steve pushed Danny, but not in an overly aggressive way like Danny might have expected. He made subtle suggestions:  _Put this foot there instead, lead with your off hand at this point, don’t fight against the net, let it work for you_.... But he also did a lot of just plainly, openly, boldly admiring Danny.

Which was slightly disconcerting, but also incredibly flattering.

“You’ve got the perfect center of gravity for this,” Steve said, as they paused for a hydration break. “I’ve got the height advantage on some of the moves, but you get better momentum overall.”

“Is that the nice way of saying I’m short?” Danny scoffed.

“No, it’s an honest assessment of your advantage. Use it.”

“How so?”

“Make use of your penalties. You get two free ones before they start subtracting points. Use them here at the ladder, and there at the wall. You’re not gonna beat me at those anyway because I can jump and pull myself up in no time, while you have to climb. So don’t worry about form, use the extra holds, get up faster, take the penalty. You’ll make it up in the gauntlet and on the turntable, because you’ll always beat me there.”

“Because of my lower center of gravity.”

“See, you’re better than you think.”

“I’m evidently shorter than I think as well,” Danny said, but he was chuckling, and he wasn’t really insulted. Besides, Steve’s points were valid, and as long as Danny could make the rest of the course without any flubs, it was a solid plan.

“Same time next Wednesday,” Steve called as they parted in the parking lot, and Danny found himself hoping he saw him before then.

  
“What’s got into you?” Groused Lou later that day as they worked a case that was mostly grunt work. “You’ve got some kind of annoying spring in your step.”

Danny pressed his lips together to quell the grin that threatened to spread across his face. But Lou saw it anyway.

“Oh my god, you’ve met someone.”

“Naw, not like that. Just... okay, don’t laugh, but the ninja guy? We worked the course together this morning. He gave me pointers. He was... cool about it. You know, not a jerk like we thought.”

“Oh my god you’re crushing on the competition.”

“I am not.” Danny bit his lip. Sometimes it was painfully evident they had teenage daughters who influenced them greatly. “It was fun to workout with him. I learned stuff. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Lou just shut up and focus on the job, okay?”

“Sure thing little buddy. Damn. And I thought that glow was just your suntan.”

“I swear to god Lou. Shut up.”

  
The case picked up after that and Danny was too exhausted to get to the gym on Thursday, but by Friday evening he was itching to get back on the course, so he skipped out on the department’s usual beers and sushi night in exchange for a session at the gym.

It was busier than he’d have thought a Friday night would be, and the course was mainly split into sections with groups taking turns on the different obstacles. Danny focused on his “cheating” skills on the wall and ladder, and found, just as Steve had predicted, that if he intentionally took the penalty by using the extra holds, his time decreased substantially. He didn’t think it’d be nearly enough to put him past Steve, but it put him closer. At least, as long as he could maintain perfection on the rest of the course.

He tried not to overtly watch for Steve, but he didn’t notice him—and he couldn’t deny that was disappointing. He poured any frustration into his workout, though, and quickly lost track of the hour. By the time he was showered and packing his bag, the locker room was deserted. As he was turning to go, he saw Steve, leaning against the door frame.

“Come surfing with me tomorrow.”

“Pardon?”

“It’ll help your balance.”

“I thought you said my center of gravity was good.”

“It is. Surfing will make it better.”

“Ummm.”

“Eight am, Queen’s Beach.”

“I don’t have—”

“I’ll bring a board for you,” Steve called, as he walked out of the locker room.

  
Of course Danny went.

And of course Steve turned out to be an excellent surf instructor.

Danny’d tried surfing before. And he’d enjoyed it, but hadn’t got the hang of it well enough to do more than glorified boogie boarding. But Steve had tips for him, based on his stance, and using his center of gravity, and he stood far too close as he positioned Danny’s feet just so, pulled his shoulders back, bent his knees. And Danny got good enough fast enough they actually did some halfway decent surfing, and Steve didn’t say it, but Danny could tell. It would benefit him on the course.

“Why are you helping me?” Danny asked, as they sat in the park near the beach, drinking water and drying in the warming late-morning breeze.

“I told you. You’re good. You get the course. You get surfing. Both those things are important to me. I like to see people do well.”

“You’re not helping anyone else,” Danny felt the need to point out. He didn’t know that for sure, obviously, but it was true that he’d never seen Steve helping anyone on the course. Or even just on the gym equipment.

Steve grinned, like he enjoyed being called out on that. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast.”

They wound up at a little hole in the wall café that served the hugest omelets Danny’d ever seen, and the fluffiest macadamia nut pancakes he’d had since the Wailana Coffee House had closed. They ate too much food and they drank too much coffee and they talked about things other than gym and surfing. Like movies and sports and cars and childhood. And maybe it felt a little like a date, but it also felt like two friends passing an easy Saturday together. By the time they left, the brunch crowd was long gone.

“Wednesday?” Danny asked, more as an affirmation, something to say.

“If not before,” Steve said with a smile, and he turned to go.

  
Monday, by the time Danny got to the gym, Steve was just leaving. They waved across the parking lot, and Danny didn’t blame that for his sour mood as he worked out, but probably it was true.

Tuesday, he’d planned to go in the morning, but they got called out for a case, and he wound up on a stakeout all day and into the night. By the time he got home, it was early Wednesday morning, and his body really desperately wanted to sleep and skip gym, and he blearily wished, as he drifted off, that he had Steve’s number so he could cancel. When his alarm went off at six, what felt like bare minutes since he’d fallen asleep, he switched it off with a groan and felt bad for like five seconds that he was bailing on Steve, but he fell back asleep right away and didn’t feel so bad.

When he woke on his own much later in the morning, he saw he had a text from a number he didn’t recognize.

_It’s Steve. Missed you at gym, hope all’s well. Pizza and beers tonight?_

Danny’s heart fluttered into his throat as he decided how to navigate this.

_I’ve got my kids tonight. We do pizza and a movie. 6:30. Bring beer_.

He actually held his breath as he waited for a reply. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long.

_Perfect. See you then_.

And given that Steve didn’t ask for his address, Danny figured he’d get that the same way he’d obviously gotten his number—from the gym. It was a tiny bit invasive, but mostly Danny found it... well, damn nice to be wanted enough for the effort, if you must know.

When he got up to make coffee, he was glad he had half the day off because the house was fine for family, but if he was having company that might possibly be construed as a date, he had slightly different standards for that, and those standards were not, at present, being met.

Grace, of course, noticed the instant she walked in the door.

“Are you dating again, Danno?” She asked, turning on him with a glint in her eye he didn’t have the energy to deal with.

“What, a guy can’t clean his house every once in a while?”

“Mmmm,” she replied, clearly not buying it.

“Can we get extra pepperoni tonight?” Charlie asked as he bounded over the sofa to re-mess up his toys Danny’d so meticulously tidied away, only hours earlier.

“Sure thing, keiki,” Danny said fondly, as he hoped Steve would find avoiding stepping on Legos to be a valuable training exercise.

Steve showed up right exactly at six thirty, just after the pizza—six pack of beer in one hand, a pack of tropical flavored sodas in the other. 

“I wasn’t sure what they’d like,” he said, handing the sodas to Danny, who wasn’t fast enough to stop the goofy grin that flooded his expression. It wasn’t as though a person would only bring something for the kids (without being asked) if that person was interested in being something more-than-friends with their dad. Only. Well. It kind of was.

“Hey guys, this is Steve, he goes to the ninja gym with me.”

“Ohhh, guava soda, thanks!” Charlie grabbed the cans from Danny and headed to the kitchen.

“That’s Charlie,” Danny said, shaking his head at his youngest. “He loves guava, so good guess on that front.”

Grace was more sedate in her reaction. And more aware. “I’m Grace,” she said, tone bordering on steely. She didn’t offer her hand for him to shake, and Danny wasn’t sure if Steve would read it, but her posture practically broadcast  _hurt my dad and you’ll regret it_.

Steve stood his ground, but took a softer tone, and Danny was sure it was intentional. “Thanks for letting me hang out with you guys tonight, Grace. Can I help with anything?”

“How are you with tossing salad?” It was a simple question, but Danny was pretty sure a whole lot hung on it.

“My salad tossing skills are legendary,” came the warm yet playful reply, and it caught her enough off guard that she laughed, and Danny started breathing again—which was when he realized he hadn’t been.

Grace led Steve into the kitchen, and he turned and looked back at Danny once before he vanished inside. His expression was amused but also smitten, and Danny’s heart thumped sideways before he could warn it not to.

Conversation over dinner was mostly led by Charlie, who was typically slow to warm to people, but for some reason (guava soda, perhaps) had decided to forgo that phase entirely in favor of diving directly into his usual Phase Two: _inquisition_. They learned all about Steve in under fifteen minutes, from his favorite pizza toppings (ham and pineapple, much to Grace’s amusement, as Danny objected heartily) to his favorite thing about school (playing football), from his favorite holiday (Christmas) to his favorite birthday dessert (yellow cake with buttercream), from his favorite book ( _All Quiet on the Western Front_ ) to his favorite movie ( _Top Gun_ ). Steve very cleverly managed to get answers to those from Charlie (double pepperoni, baseball, also Christmas, chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, Harry Potter, and Harry Potter), and a couple from Danny and Grace as well (Thanksgiving and chocolate like Charlie, and Halloween and strawberry, respectively).

Steve helped clear the table and rinsed the dishes while Grace loaded the dishwasher and Charlie and Danny put together a tray of sweets for the movie—some dark chocolate peanut M&Ms (“They’re the best kind, don’t you think?”), some Red Vines (“Those are Grace’s favorite”), and some Junior Mints (“Danno likes them frozen, like Peppermint Patties”).

The movie was some animated thing that was sweet and probably had a good moral lesson in there somewhere, buried enough that it didn’t hit you over the head but when you thought about it later you realized the whole point was about sharing your cookies even with people you didn’t like at first, and it was light and it was fun, and they all laughed, and Danny tried really hard not to panic about just how nice it was, having someone to share this with.

Yeah, he had Lou. And they did holidays together, and shared cooking and care-taking when the kids were sick (going to the same school, that was almost always conveniently at the same time). But it’d been a while since they’d done regular old weeknight stuff together, as the kids got older and busier. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

It was also a little different because he’d never hoped the kids would fall asleep so he could have some alone time with Lou... and maybe get a goodnight kiss.

Grace got Charlie to brush his teeth, and into his pajamas, then took herself off to her room for homework while Charlie told Danny and Steve a bedtime story about a brave warrior who found true love with another brave warrior who liked pineapple, and it was enough like the movie that it wasn’t excessively embarrassing, but it was close enough to home that Danny was pretty sure he blushed.

By the time Charlie was in bed, and Danny and Steve settled on the sofa with another beer each, Danny felt like his skin was too tight, like he wasn’t any longer sure which way was up. Especially with the way Steve was looking at him.

“They’re amazing kids,” Steve said, sliding his arm along the back of the sofa, close enough to Danny to touch—but didn’t. “Clearly you’re a great dad.”

“Thanks for putting up with all that,” Danny waved vaguely, indicating the toys on the floor and the 20 questions and the movie, the dishes.

Steve just looked at him with that grin he favored. The one that made it seem as though he found Danny absolutely captivating. “Thank  _you_  for including me.”

They talked lightly for a bit, but when Danny started yawning, Steve graciously excused himself, saying he hoped to see Danny at gym later in the week.

Danny walked Steve to the door, and the night slipped a little bit into dream land, the air thickening, the light going fuzzy, Danny’s pulse throbbing in his ears. He realized why, when Steve turned, right outside the door, with Danny standing that little bit elevated at the threshold, and Steve leaned in, just enough, and pressed a light, teasing, hint of a kiss to Danny’s lips.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Danno,” he whispered, eyes twinkling in the porch light, and turned and walked to his truck.

  
Friday afternoon he got off work early and headed to the gym. Steve was already there, working his way through the machines. He waved Danny over, and they fell into doing their reps, easily, side by side, not talking mindlessly as people sometimes do at the gym. Not needing to.

It was more crowded than it’d been the Friday before, so they didn’t try for the course, leaving it to those who were new and overly enthusiastic, but watching them with enjoyment for a while before hitting the showers.

“Go for a drink?” Steve asked, in the locker room while they were getting dressed.

Danny sighed. He’d promised Lou he’d join the department for sushi, seeing as how he’d skipped out on them last week. It wasn’t the kind of thing dates were included in, their Friday night beer and raw fish tradition. It was for venting about the Chief, complaining about budget cuts, gossiping about the new recruits.

“Hey,” Steve said easily, reading Danny’s hesitation. “Don’t worry about it. Some other time.”

“It’s a work thing,” Danny explained, thinking he read disappointment in Steve’s eyes, though his voice disguised it.

“Yeah, totally, I get it.”

“I, uh, was thinking I might take the kids to the beach tomorrow,” Danny mentioned, casually, he hoped, looking at the floor as he shoved his wet towel in his bag. “You know, if you wanted to join us.”

He felt it like the sun coming out after a storm. And sure enough, when he looked up, he saw that grin. Ohhh that grin that he was very much afraid he was becoming addicted to. “I’ll bring snacks,” Steve said, and slinging his bag over his shoulder, he grabbed Danny’s as well, and walked them out to their cars.

  
Turned out Steve brought more than just snacks, and Danny wasn’t sure how he felt about how easily Steve was slotting into their lives, but Charlie was delighted by the Charlie-sized surf board that had obviously been Steve’s, and Grace warmed to him considerably when he took her out on a perfectly Grace-sized board that had evidently belonged to his sister. 

They lazed in the shade of the trees in the park after, chatting surprisingly easily for people so recently acquainted. When they went their separate ways, Steve home to do chores, Danny and the kids back to Danny’s, he wished for a moment that Steve would be bold enough to kiss him—not publicly, but in front of the kids. He thought for one brief moment he might, but Charlie got between them asking about surfing again, and the moment passed.

That night, Danny found Grace watching him as they made dinner while Charlie played in his room, and he raised an eyebrow in question at her but said nothing, and she just smiled and kissed him on the cheek before going to set the table. 

When he got in bed and grabbed his phone to read a little before going to sleep, he found he had a string of messages from Steve. Photos of them all from the beach—him and Charlie playing in the waves, him and Grace basking in the sun, and one of all four of them. A goofy selfie Steve had taken of them all making silly faces and laughing. He set it as his wallpaper and sent a _Thank you for today_ back. It was only moments before he got _I had a wonderful time_ in reply, and he set his phone down with a smile that was probably a little softer than was wise. 

  
Every day that week they trained together. Twice, by design, three times by evident coincidence, though Danny wasn’t entirely sure Steve didn’t have someone at the gym alerting him to Danny’s arrival, because two of those times he showed up precisely ten minutes after Danny, and those were at wildly different times of day. 

Danny’s time on the course notched slowly down, his confidence in his ability to run it securely ratcheted gradually up. And the tension between him and Steve continued to evolve. There were lingering looks over the ropes, admiring gazes during free weights, and each time they parted, usually in the parking lot, it seemed like there was something Steve wanted to say but would always decide not to. 

Still, every several nights they wound up eating together, or going for drinks, or getting take out and watching a movie. And on the nights they didn’t, Danny had to try real hard to not wish they did. 

Other things continued along mostly the same, light kisses evolved to heavier make-out sessions, but not further. They surfed most weekends, trained every Wednesday. And before they knew it, the time for the gym competition was upon them. 

They hadn’t talked about it, about the fact they’d be going up against each other, except for what they’d mentioned early on, about times and penalties. And Steve never timed himself in front of Danny, but Danny also never timed himself when Steve was watching. The week before the contest they wordlessly agreed to stay apart, though Danny wasn’t sure it mattered. If anything he felt less up for it from missing Steve. He wondered if Steve felt the same.  

The day of the competition Danny just felt _weird_. The sun glared too bright, coffee didn’t taste right, sounds rang tinny and muted in his ears. Sitting in the locker room trying to ground himself, Danny almost wished the whole absurd thing was just over. There was a bustle at the door, and he looked up to see Steve fending a crowd off just outside the locker room.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, just give me a minute to get set okay?”

He slid the lock silently into place and sighed, grinning crookedly at Danny. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly over to where Danny sat, reaching out a hand and yanking him to his feet by the neck of his shirt, shoving him backwards against the wall, pressing his body against Danny’s, leaning in with much of his considerable weight and strength. Their lips met in a shared gasp, and Danny wanted to melt, to not stop, to slip out the back of the gym and run away. To finally take this to the next level. To be anywhere but here. Do anything but this.

“You.” Steve panted, forehead pressing against Danny’s as though he genuinely needed it to keep him upright. “You are going to beat me. You have to beat me.”

The intensity of his tone made Danny’s stomach clench. “Why?” No, that wasn’t the right question. “ _How_?”

Steve huffed out a small breath against Danny’s lips. “Because you’re better than you think.” And pressing another quick kiss to Danny’s lips, he turned and stepped out of the locker room, into the throng of his fans awaiting him on the other side. 

Maybe it was some sense of obligation, maybe it was Steve’s belief in him, or something in that kiss. Maybe it was just his desire to get out of here and get on with his life—with Steve very much in said life. But something swelled in Danny as he walked out into the gym that fateful afternoon, to the cheers of a precious few, compared to the mass of gold-clad fans chanting “Steve! Steve! Steve!”

He saw Lou and the kids, he saw a handful of others from the force, he saw his PT, grinning delightedly, giving him a double thumbs up. 

Deliberately not looking Steve’s direction, Danny took his place along the opposite wall, next to the other competitors. 

Three other guys went before Danny. One fell off the gauntlet, which essentially amounted to a forfeit. One didn’t make any mistakes at all, but paid for it in his time, which Danny knew was slower than his own “worst” time. The third wasn’t half bad, and Danny knew if he flubbed at all, he’d likely finish behind the guy. 

Then it was Danny’s turn. He could just make out Charlie’s cheers and Grace’s whistle through the muffled sound of the rushing of blood in his ears. He took a deep breath, grounded himself with remembering Steve’s hands on him, teaching him the best stance on the surfboard, and then it all went silent. When the buzzer sounded, Danny felt his body shift into movement almost of its own volition. He hit the first obstacle just perfectly right, made the transition to the next as seamlessly as he ever had, took his penalty at the ladder, felt like he was ahead of his usual pace if only because he hit the next with his stride slightly off, which almost threw him till he realized it set him up without the need of that extra step. He was right in his element for the turntable, handled the wall with unaccustomed ease, and by the time he collapsed into the finish, he felt as though time itself had gone slightly blurry. 

Charlie rushed over and handed him his water bottle, chattering away about how great he’d done. When he stood up, Grace wrapped his towel around his shoulders, grinning hugely and saying something about his time. But he didn’t even care. He knew he’d done his best. Knew he’d done better than he ever had before, and that... that he found meant more to him than he would have imagined. It settled somewhere deep inside him and set off this subtle _hum_. His head still felt like it was in a jar, or stuffed with a wad of cotton. But part of him, he knew, was changed by this. He’d done the course as perfectly as he possibly could have, and nothing would take that away. He figured he was probably glowing, as he sat on the bench with his kids on either side of him, Lou and his kids standing proudly behind. So swept up in the sense of it he was that he almost forgot Steve was next. 

Steve ran the course with his usual grace and efficiency. Grabbing holds as though the thing had been built for him. Danny had always gotten a thrill from watching the way Steve navigated the course, but today there was some extra energy to him that seemed like it sparkled extra bright. He couldn’t have said what it was, but he found it exciting, found he wanted it to spill over onto him. Wanted to bathe in it. 

When Steve finished and Grace gasped, Danny didn’t immediately process it. It took Lou’s firm slap on his back for Danny to turn round and look quizzically at him. 

Those big round eyes were glistening. “You did it, little buddy, man I didn’t think you could, but you sure showed him! I’m so damn proud of you.”

“Language, Uncle Lou!” Charlie scolded, but then he was jumping on Danny, knocking him over into Grace, and it started to seep in. 

He’d actually won? Beaten Steve? 

His heart nearly stopped, because quite completely honestly, he hadn’t thought about what that would mean. He hadn’t for one moment thought it possible. 

But Steve had. 

Danny looked up, suddenly needing to see Steve, needing to know... and it took him a moment to find him, but then their eyes locked, just for a second, and he saw that damn smile. Proud and cocky at the same time. And his heart just flooded. 

Because he understood. 

If Steve had won, it would have meant touring nationally, entering other competitions, doing the circuit. But because Danny had won, Danny who _Steve had trained_.... Well, not that having a gym star run the national competitive rounds wouldn’t have put the Oahu gym on the map. But having a trainer who could produce a winner, that was in its own way actually _more_ valuable. 

It also meant Steve would be very busy. 

Very busy _here_. At home. On the island. 

It took a lot for Danny to not walk over and kiss Steve in front of all his (still) adoring fans. But he knew their time would come. For now, the knowing was enough. As Danny gathered up his stuff and prepared to head his own tiny entourage to the parking lot and onwards to pizza, Steve broke away from his groupies to meet them in the middle of the gym. 

“Hey, Charlie. You wanna go surfing tomorrow?”

“Yes, please!”

Steve looked at Danny, saw Danny’s understanding of what his win—and Steve’s loss—meant, and he winked. “Great. I’ll pick you guys up at eight if you think you can be ready?”

“Only if you bring a really big coffee for Danno,” Charlie said with a laugh. 

“That’s a deal, kiddo,” Steve said, and high fived Charlie, then turned back to his crowd with a wave. 

  
They celebrated with extra-pepperoni pizza, beers and soda, and ice cream with sprinkles on it. Danny and Lou and the kids. And it was great. It was. You just can’t blame him if part of his mind was in another place. 

It was late by the time they got home, and Danny threatened Charlie and Grace with no surfing if they didn’t get right to bed. He lingered a little more in his own shower, but he figured he deserved it. When he got out, he saw he had a message from Steve. 

_Congratulations. Can’t wait to celebrate with you_.

It was late so he didn’t reply. Besides. There was only one reply he was interested in giving. 

  
It was slightly before eight the next morning when he got another text. 

_I’m out front. I have coffee_.

Danny walked out to meet him. Steve was holding a drinks tray with an enormous coffee and two smaller drinks he figured were hot cocoas for the kids. Danny took the tray from him and set it on the hood of Steve’s truck. Then he walked Steve up against the side of the truck, pressing into him just like Steve had pressed into Danny at the gym. 

They kissed until Danny understood why Steve had needed the support to stand. He shifted his weight to his hands, on either side of Steve. 

“I am so glad you beat me,” Steve said, nearly breathless. “I can’t wait for you to beat me every day.”

Danny chuckled, deep in his chest, the vibration making Steve shiver. “I dunno. I figure you’ll win some of the time.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked, with a goofy, smitten grin. “Why’s that?”

Danny smiled wolfishly and leaned in to kiss him. “ _Because you’re better than you think_.”


	10. And So It Goes (Nightclub AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightclub AU/Previous Relationship
> 
> Danny’s nightclub has just lost their pianist again, and his headline performer, Deb McGarrett, has a suggestion for a replacement. Someone Danny hasn’t seen in a very long time.... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Billy Joel song of the same name. 
> 
> This is one of those stories that took its own path, very different from the one I’d imagined for it. I adore the result, and hope you will too, but first.
> 
> **A couple of content notes** :
> 
> Some relationship related angst.
> 
> Mentions of domestic abuse, in a flashback. (Additional spoiler-ish details in the end notes.)
> 
> There IS a happy ending. 

“Who knew pianists were so moody,” Jerry muses blandly as he turns back to his sandwich.

“That’s the fifth one in as many months,” Tani sighs, sliding off her stool to go round to the other side of the bar to vent her frustrations with a drink. 

“No, sixth,” Lou reminds her, as Danny nods along, hoping she’ll make him one as well. 

“Right... I wasn’t counting the one who didn’t even last a day,” she says, handing Lou and Danny both glasses of whatever she’s poured. 

They all sigh, sip their drinks, nibble their food, and the silence, in a space that should be filled with songs and applause, is loud.  

“Well,” Deb says eventually, breaking the quiet. “You know I’m happy to fill in kiddo, but I have someone who might be able to help out. At least until you can find someone long term.”

Danny looks over at Deb, his surprise no doubt evident on his face. “And why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

She grimaces, and that should be Danny’s warning, but it’s not. He stupidly doesn’t see it coming. Fortunately she’s kind enough to address the others, and not Danny. “It’s my nephew. He’s only just back in town. Usually he doesn’t stay long, but if he feels needed he might....” She trails off, slightly forlorn look in her eyes, not meeting Danny’s, even though he’s basically glaring daggers at her. 

Danny’s not seen Steve in ages. Not since... god, Grace hadn’t even been born yet and she’s nearly six now. But that’s a line of thinking that won’t lead anywhere good. Besides. He’s nearly forgotten all that, or so he tries to tell himself (as if pretending will make it hurt less).

He’s heard tales since then, of course. Of Steve’s adventures and exploits since leaving home that most recent time. Of traveling the world again, making his way by his wits and his skills and possibly by vaguely illegal means. Dangerous ones at times, if Danny’s read Deb’s tone accurately when she’s told stories. He’s tried not to think any risk Steve’s taken could in some way be Danny’s fault. Won’t let himself take that blame. 

Which is utter bullshit because if anything bad had happened to Steve, Danny would of course have blamed himself.

“Hmmmm,” Danny stalls. He’s desperate, but not at all sure he’s up for the risk to his heart that being near Steve implies. Besides, Danny’s only just gotten over another broken heart, and he knows full well that those hazel eyes, that teasing smile, both spell trouble. (Absolutely with a capital T.) 

But he _is_ desperate. 

“Can he start tonight?” He asks it softly. As if that will make it somehow more okay.

She tries not to grin too hugely, but being herself, utterly fails. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He’s made her happy, he knows, and it eases his apprehension just a little. “Yeah alright, that way you can still go on tonight. I’d hate to disappoint your fans.”

She lays a warm hand on his arm. “Thank you honey, you won’t regret it.”

_That’s a phrase that always bodes well_ , Danny thinks to himself as he goes to get the club ready for the evening’s entertainment.

Still. It’s almost hard to think about regretting it when Steve shows up—older, thinner, more dapper and polished, yet somehow still rough around the edges—and he ingratiates himself almost immediately with all the staff he comes in contact with. He runs numbers with Lou and Tani, who are on tonight before Deb, and they both seem taken with him, so that pleases Danny. His life is always so much easier when the talent is happy. (He tries not to think about the fact that it’s easy to focus on the happiness of others at the expense of his own. Or that it’s something he tends to do rather frequently.)

Danny sits at the bar across from Adam, who is busy pre-assembling his elaborate garnishes for the night’s cocktails. Danny’s doing the usual fussy last minute stuff—making sure there’s enough change for the waiters, making sure the logo’d cocktail napkins are facing the right way round in their holders, checking over the fresh table flowers, refilling the candles.

Okay, so maybe he’s partly stalling. Maybe he’s checking Steve out. Purely professionally of course. It has been six years since they’d last slept—uh, _worked_ —together, and Danny’s not at all sure how Steve might have changed in that time. 

He has standards to maintain is his point. 

Adam finishes with the garnishes and leans over the bar, pouring soda waters from the drinks hose for himself and Danny. 

“He’s easy on the eyes, isn’t he,” Adam observes, blissfully unaware of their past. 

Fortunately, Adam’s watching Steve, who is sorting through his music at the piano, presumably getting everything in the correct order, so he misses Danny’s reaction, which is good as no doubt his expression is far too revealing. Because yes, Steve is still easy on the eyes. And yes, Danny is still very aware of it. 

Dammit.  

But when Danny doesn’t reply, Adam glances at him and continues. “Good quality in a piano player, I’d imagine. Someone nice to look at. Hold the interest of the crowd, even between numbers.”

Which reminds Danny. He should probably talk to Steve about that. About some interlude music. He’d avoided talking with him when Deb brought him round to meet everyone. Danny’d kept out of the way, pretending to be too busy, but in truth simply not being up for facing him. 

But having a specific topic should help, so he downs his drink as though it’s something stronger than carbonated water, slips down from the stool, and ambles over to the piano, just as Steve’s finished arranging his music. 

“Thanks for being so quick to fill in,” he begins. And he’s glad he got something out right away, because as soon as Steve looks up and grins in response, Danny looses the ability to think for a good thirty seconds. 

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” 

And maybe Steve was already thinking it, or maybe he brings it up to fill the awkward pause when Danny doesn’t reply, but he starts talking about stuff he could play as filler between sets if Danny wants, and Danny thinks he manages to seem appreciative and encouraging and he mumbles something about Steve getting some food from the kitchen if he needs, and to let Adam know his drink preferences, and before he can feel like a complete idiot, Danny retreats to the office to do absolutely nothing but stare at the wall and curse his luck. 

Fortunately, if his track record holds, Steve won’t be around for long. Which is good. Because Danny’s pretty sure his heart wouldn’t be able to take it if he was. 

Thing is. Steve is still really good. Maybe better than Danny’d remembered. He proves it that night and the next several after that. He’s that perfect mix of drop-back-and-nearly-disappear at the piano, letting the singer shine for their numbers, then draws just enough attention to himself for some non-vocal renditions of this and the other tune, keeping the audience engaged enough but allowing them the time to chat and order more drinks or some food, but keeping up the mood, bringing just enough electricity to the set that you don’t get that near-painful-let-down-lull you sometimes unfortunately do, with a less charismatic keyboardist. 

It’s Danny’s preference for a reason, having the piano player be more than a simple accompanist. And maybe he’s got high standards (and maybe that's Steve’s fault in the first place) and maybe that’s why they’ve run through pianists like they’re disposable plates. Because it is still the main job of the keyboardist to blend ever so slightly into the backdrop, so it’s the singers who truly have the spotlight (after all, Danny doesn’t pay the good money for the likes of Deb McGarrett for no reason). And that’s a rare combination indeed—someone who can do both. But of course Steve gets it. He was practically raised by his aunt, grew up in a performing household. In so many ways he’s still the perfect fit. And maybe his sudden return is the answer to Danny’s... well, not prayers, exactly. More like his cursing rants. 

But the problem is, Steve’s a little too close to the answer to a very different sort of not-prayer that Danny frequently mutters to himself on nights when he can’t sleep and his only companion is his own hand. 

So basically he’s doomed if Steve does stay and screwed if he doesn’t. 

(Perfectly par for the course in Danny’s life, in other words.) 

  
It’s been several weeks of this. Of Steve performing better than Danny could have hoped, of his singers being more relaxed and contented than they’ve been in a long time, if ever. Of a steady increase in nightly numbers, a significant uptick in between-sets-drinks-orders. The club seems brighter, the staff bubblier, Deb’s certainly happier. Everyone’s benefitting. 

Everyone except Danny, that is. 

Danny is strained nearly to breaking. He’s not sleeping. He’s doing his best, or what he thinks is his best, to ignore the stupid stupid pull of his heart back to this infuriatingly helpful and talented and kind and thoughtful and aware man who has thrust his way back into Danny’s life, into his every waking thought and most of his non-waking ones as well. 

The problem of course would be that _aware_ bit.

It’s late Sunday night at the end of a fabulously successful and terrifically fun weekend (well for all except Danny that is), and everyone’s gone off to have some breakfast at the all-night diner around the corner, while Danny lingers to close up the club, saying he just needs to do some paperwork first. Too late he notices Steve’s held back as well. He’s about to pretend he didn’t notice, turns to head for the office, when Steve speaks up.

“Do you have a problem with me being here?”

Danny’s heart stops. He turns, the surprise on his face hopefully hiding the fact that he’s not breathing.

“Only, it seems like everyone’s been real welcoming. Real friendly. It’s been one of the best gigs I’ve had in ages. Except my boss doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“Is that a problem for you?” Danny can’t help it. He becomes easily antagonistic, especially if he feels threatened. And oh boy does he feel threatened. His heart has rarely felt more threatened.

Steve scoffs. “Naw, of course not. Only I’d kind of like to know why. Is there something I should be doing differently?”

And the problem is. Danny isn’t a total ass. He’d sometimes like to be. But he’s not. So he sighs and walks towards the piano. 

“You’re doing great,” he says as he nears, lowering his voice to make up for the closing space between them, hating himself for how fond it comes out sounding. “Attendance is up. Revenue is up. Both down to you.”

Steve scoffs again but it’s mellowed by surprise. “How do you know that’s down to me?” He’s brought his volume down as well, and there’s not a warmth to his tone that does things to Danny’s pulse rate. No. That would be absurd.

Still, Danny manages a chuckle. “Oh, I know.”

Steve blinks and presses his lips together to hide the smile. But then he looks up at Danny, who’s now standing right in front of him. “So, _do_ you hate me?”

And it’s late and Danny’s tired and maybe that’s why it comes out the way it does.

“No, I don’t hate you.... I just don’t expect you to stick around.”

And due credit to Steve, he doesn’t even pretend to be offended. He takes it as his due. Knows he deserves the barb. And he’s not bold enough to watch Danny as he says it, just a bare whisper. “Maybe this time I won’t be afraid to stay.”

And fuck but if there isn’t something poignantly apologetic in his tone. It makes Danny’s heart flutter. But he doesn’t reply. Doesn’t acknowledge the offering. And soon Steve stands, shutting the piano. 

“Come on, you look like you could use a good meal.”

“I’ve got paperwork....”

“No you don’t. You’ve barely left the office all night. There can’t possibly be any more work to be done.”

And he should be right. There shouldn’t be, the amount of time Danny’s spent hiding in the back office lately, there should be no paperwork at all. But of course there is because he’s pathetic and he hasn’t been working so much as... what, pining? Like some lovelorn teenager? Yeah, basically. 

But he really is hungry. And he figures breakfast with his staff after their best weekend in a long time would be nice. So he gives in to Steve’s persuading, and his shiver is purely reflexive when Steve slaps him on the shoulder and practically pushes him out the door. He expects, naturally, that they’ll join the others at the diner, but Steve steers them in the opposite direction, and Danny, feeble fool that he is, doesn’t question it.

They end up at some tiny, nearly hidden Indian restaurant that Danny’s never even noticed before, and normal service is long over, though the family that runs the place is having what seems like a special celebration—but Steve insists it’s just a regular Sunday night, and they treat him like family, and why is Danny not surprised that Steve’s now fluent in Hindi? And the food is amazing. But the atmosphere is even more amazing, and it’s not long before Danny’s more relaxed than he’s been in a long time. 

Steve’s his usual kicked back, at-home-in-any-situation, too-suave-for-Danny’s-own-good self. And Danny should bristle at it, should be on his guard. But he’s not. Maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s the scent of curry in the air. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the tension of the past few weeks. But something in him has declared _truce_. So he sits back and he shakes his head and he sighs.

Steve doesn’t miss a thing.

“What,” he prods, when Danny doesn’t say anything. 

“I just can’t believe I fell for that again,” he muses, but it’s not bitter. It’s not even really resigned. It’s simply an observation. 

“Fell for what?” Steve doesn’t feign offense. Though he really should. After all, he knows full well what Danny means.

“Your bait and switch. I assumed you meant we’d join the others and instead you bring me here, to this utterly magical place that only you would know about, not even officially open, not a place anyone else could just go. No, it has to be one of your magical Steve things. You never could do anything like a normal person. Always had to be something extra.”

Steve does flush embarrassed at that. “Danny, I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted you to have a nice night, some good food. Relax a little.” He _sounds_ contrite enough. And it’s kind of a surprising tone coming from him. And it throws Danny a little. 

“Well. Mission accomplished,” he says. But it doesn’t come out as snarky as he intends. 

Steve grins, and he turns to pay the grandmotherly figure who’s been eyeing them in a way not at all subtle. She refuses Steve’s money, scolding him instead, pointing at Danny and smacking Steve none too gently on the arm. He replies in a placating cadence, then turns to Danny with a shrug.

“She says its past your bedtime, and I’m evidently in trouble for keeping you out so late.”

Danny laughs, waves a grateful _thank you_ to the woman who hits Steve again and mutters something else at him as they leave. 

“What else did she say?” Danny asks, once they’re out in the cool early morning air. 

Steve hesitates. “Oh just that I’m trouble as always and I should know better.” And Danny’s sure there’s more to it that Steve’s not saying, but he doesn’t push it, and they walk on in silence, but it’s comfortable, and when they get to the front door of Danny’s apartment building, Steve shuffles his feet awkwardly. 

“Thanks for tonight,” Danny says, trying to catch Steve’s gaze. “That was really nice.”

Steve grins. Not his full cocky grin, just a notch or two down from it. “I’m glad. Now, you’d better get some sleep or I’ll be in trouble for that as well.”

And it makes Danny smile. Probably more than it should. And he’d almost kiss Steve goodnight, if that wasn't too weighted a thing between them. But it is. And he wishes it wasn't. And that’s new. 

“Yeah, I think I just might,” he says instead, and turns to open the door. 

“See you Wednesday,” Steve calls as Danny walks towards the stairs. 

He wants to say _how about tomorrow_ , but the door swings shut before he can work up the courage, so he just waves over his shoulder and heads on up to his apartment. 

  
Danny spends his “weekend” in the usual way—Monday catching up on chores, doing some cooking for the week ahead, spending the evening with his daughter. Tuesday after he drops her at school he winds up back at his apartment, mindlessly watching some of the shows he’d recorded during the week, and thinking about Steve. A lot. Too much. Easily too much. He more than half expects to be jostled out of his daydreaming by the man himself showing up on his doorstep, in some grand and melodramatic gesture, begging Danny to take him back, saying he's sorry for leaving, and he’s back to stay for good. 

Of course he hates himself for it. And drowns his self-loathing in his usual way.

Baking.

So on Wednesday when he shows up at the club with tins and bags filled with cookies and biscotti and brownies, it’s Jerry who pulls him aside. 

“Danny, I’m sorry I haven’t been paying better attention. I’d thought you were doing okay about Rachel. It’s just Steve’s so great we’ve all been a little smitten, so if I haven’t been paying attention....” 

And Danny thinks he hides the sting of that well enough. Jerry wasn’t around for the whole Steve thing the first round. He thinks Danny’s still upset about the latest round of Rachel. Which, come to think of it, he’s not. And maybe that should tell him something. But he thinks probably he’s come to realize that each time he tries to get back together with her it’s more about wanting to be a full time dad to Grace while she’s still young. He’s missed too much of the past few years as it is, and she’ll be a teenager before he knows it, and he’s weak. 

“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing great. Enjoy the cookies,” he says, patting Jerry on the back and feeling grateful to have him in his life, maybe not for his emotional insight, but his amazing Elvis-a-like singing voice and stage presence, not to mention his endless geek connections are a real asset to the club, and frankly he’s just a good guy to have on your side. Besides. He loves Danny’s baking, and that isn’t something to be undervalued. 

Deb, however, catches the more accurate reason for Danny’s baking. Because she recognizes the cookies. And he kicks himself for that, for being so blindly sentimental. 

“You should tell him,” she says softly, nibbling on one of the white chocolate macadamia nut cookies that are just this side of fully baked. “He won’t presume. He doesn’t think he deserves it, a second chance. He’ll try and make up for what he thinks he’s done, but he’ll never take that step, honey. He will leave that to you.” 

And she kisses him lingeringly on the cheek, lets her hand stay on his arm, gives it a good squeeze, and turns to go get ready. She’s got the opening set tonight, a few classics to get the crowd in the mood before Jerry’s popular Wednesday night Elvis tribute. 

Just before opening, Jerry’s warming up—mostly these days that means he and Steve are playing around, jumping from one song on his list to the next, slipping for brief interludes into show tunes (mostly the latest musicals, which Danny only knows because Grace loves them too). Danny’d been surprised at Steve’s proficiency with Jerry’s Elvis repertoire. And maybe just a little suspicious. Not that he thinks Deb would do anything nefarious, wouldn’t intentionally drive their last pianist away just so Danny’d be forced to re-hire Steve. But Steve certainly hadn’t been into Elvis before, and Danny’s pretty sure it isn’t something he would have had much demand for, in his recent line of work. 

At any rate, Jerry’s really into it tonight, really playing it up. Hound Dogging it in his Blue Suede Jail House, Loving Tender under some Blue Hawaiian moon, when Lou walks in with Grace and Samantha, and the girls squeal and run to “uncle” Jerry, fitting the role of adoring fans a little too well for as young as they are. 

But when Jerry stops to hug the girls, Steve falters. It’s just one moment, just one pause, but Danny realizes it like a punch to the gut—this is the first time Steve’s seen Grace in person. The first time he’s come face to face with the reason Danny wouldn't leave with him, all those years ago. 

The reason Steve left, alone. 

It had been the plan, the two of them going off together. Have an adventure before they got old and settled, before Danny took over the club for good. But that was before. Before things had gotten... _complicated_. Before Rachel—who not many months before had stomped on Danny’s heart and left him at the altar—had shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, very pregnant, and with a blackening eye and a cut on her cheek. 

Danny’s math is really good and he’s fast at it, so it hadn't taken him long to work out the baby was his. 

And there of course was never any doubt that he’d do right by the baby. Even without Rachel’s epiphany that the arms she’d fled Danny’s for were not safe arms into which to trust a child. But Danny would never have been able to turn her away, regardless of his feelings for the man warming his bed that night (and for the previous several months worth of nights).

Steve recovers after just a beat, matching Jerry as he resumes singing, following him into some Broadway tune Danny doesn’t know yet. But Steve does, and the girls do, and he keeps playing, and most people probably wouldn’t even know anything was up. 

But Danny’s not most people. And it stings him, more than he’s prepared for, when he thinks that maybe he’s the only one who _would_ know. The only one Steve’s let in enough to know he’s actually really thrown by Grace’s presence by the side of his piano. The only one who knows his heart well enough to see what this is doing to him. 

If he was a meaner man, Danny would let the torture continue, but he’s not, so he hands the keys to Tani, thanks her for locking up tonight, and lifts Grace into his arms. He takes one last, lingering look at Steve and nearly chokes on the expression he sees in those familiar hazel eyes. Then with great effort he turns to go, and Lou and Samantha trail in Danny’s wake out the door for their father-daughter night of pizza, movie, ice cream floats, and mani-pedis.

And they do have a lovely evening. They eat too much pizza, make a huge mess on the kitchen table making enormous root beer floats. Danny paints Grace’s fingernails bright orange, she paints his toes sparkling blue. They watch an animated movie about fairies and magic and friendship until the girls fall asleep on the sofa. Danny and Lou carry them to the bunk beds in Grace’s room, then switch to a movie with more violence and swear words, until they too fall asleep on the sofa. 

When they wake it’s just past closing at the club, and Danny resists the urge to call Tani and make sure it all went well. They sit for a while in silence, and Danny starts to say something, to maybe ask if Lou saw it, saw the way Steve looked at Grace. But Lou didn’t know Steve from before, though he does know what happened between them. Besides. He can’t bring himself to say it out loud. Can’t bring himself to think what it might mean. Doesn’t dare hope. 

Lou looks at Danny, that look that always precedes one of his lectures when he thinks he knows what’s best for Danny. 

He shakes it off. “Lou, don’t. Not tonight.”

Lou frowns. “I’d have thought tonight, of all nights, you’d listen.”

Danny stammers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Danny, I love you man, but you have this really amazing ability to make yourself unhappy. For once try to not do that. For once try and see if maybe you can’t be happy?”

Danny looks at his hands in his lap. He’s been playing, absently, with one of Grace’s toys. It’s some kind of absurdly sparkly, brightly colored human-animal hybrid. The kind of thing Rachel won’t let her have, but Danny, mostly out of guilt and frustration at not being more in her life, buys her in vast quantities. Its fur is sprinkled with a pattern of hearts, and its long hair is rainbow colored. _Subtle_ , he thinks to himself, in terms of the universe sending him signs, then he briefly wonders about the motivations of children’s toy designers before he tosses the doll down, with far more force than its sparkly existence surely demands, and he stands. A little shaky on his feet, but feeling oddly determined. 

“You sure?” Danny asks, not really waiting for a reply. 

“Yeah, man,” Lou calls. “Just bring us some breakfast in the morning!”

  
He’s not aware of driving to Deb’s, not aware of anything, until he’s standing at her front door, thinking it’s a little absurd to ring the bell at... nearly two in the morning. So he pulls out his phone, realizes he doesn’t have Steve’s number, hesitates before grabbing a handful of the gravel that lines the path, and heading to the back of the house, to the room he knows is Steve’s. 

There’s a faint light, like maybe he’s reading or something. Danny tosses a couple pebbles at the glass, afraid to brake the glass, afraid to make too much noise. There’s no movement inside, so he tosses a few more. He thinks he sees a shadow on the wall, but the sheer curtain stays in place. He throws the rest of the gravel in one go, and it clatters loudly against the pane, falling to the sill beneath. The curtain is pulled back, the sash lifted. Steve squints out into the darkness, startling when he makes out who’s there.

“What the fuck, Danny?”

“I don’t have your number.”

“So you decided to scare the crap out of me?”

“Would ringing the doorbell have been better?”

“Yes!”

“Fine, whatever, I’m sorry. Can we please talk?”

Steve leans out the window, as though assessing the situation. “You wanna come in?”

Danny eyes the height of the window and thinks probably he could make it. “Yeah, that’d be good.” He walks closer, but Steve rolls his eyes.

“Go to the front door, you idiot.”

Danny huffs out a laugh, and heads to the front of the house. When he gets there, Steve’s standing in the doorway like he’s not decided yet if he’s actually going to let Danny in.

For a moment, Danny hesitates, but then something reminds him of what Deb had said... how it needed to be Danny to make that move, so he walks right up to Steve, pushes him aside, and walks past. Once he’s in, though, he hesitates, uncertain of where this kind of conversation ought to happen. Steve’s room, now he thinks about it, is probably a really bad idea. 

“Kitchen,” Steve grumbles, and follows when Danny heads that way. He pulls down a bottle of brandy, two familiar cut glass snifters, pours them each a few fingers worth, adds a splash of cream and a sprinkle of nutmeg. “As we’re not sleeping,” he says, to excuse the drink. 

“So,” Danny says, inhaling the combined scent of nutmeg, milk, and booze. It reminds him too much of things he’s wanted to forget. Wonders if Steve’s done it on purpose. 

“So,” echoes Steve, then takes a long slow drink. “God, I haven’t made one of these in forever.”

Danny’s pretty sure he knows the last time. Certainly the last time _he_ had the brandy concoction. He sucks in a small sip and looks up at Steve. From the look on his face, he’s just remembered.

“It was a different kitchen table, but...” Danny looks at the clock on the wall. “Probably the same time of night.”

The fact that there’d been a bruised and distraught pregnant woman sleeping in their bed goes unsaid. 

“I’m not having this conversation again,” Steve mutters. 

“I think we should, though.”

“Danny....” There’s a note of warning in his tone, a hint of exhaustion, as though they’ve literally just had the conversation rather than it having been nearly six years ago.

“I saw the way you looked at Grace,” Danny says softly. 

Steve huffs out a breath that’s less sharp than Danny might have expected. 

“It wasn’t the way I expected you to look at her.”

Steve glares at him. “I don’t resent her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No. I don’t think that. But I didn’t expect you to look so much like you _regretted_ it.”

Steve hides his face in his drink, and when he comes up, Danny’s sees his eyes are wet. “Of course I regret it, Danny. How could I not? I could have been part of her life, part of _your_ life, and I gave that up, why? Because I was afraid I’d always come in third?”

Danny downs the rest of his drink. “It wasn’t a completely invalid concern....”

“Maybe. But it was immature. And selfish.” He refills his glass, then mutters into it. “I wasn’t ready to be a parent.”

Danny moves his empty glass towards Steve for more, meeting and holding his eyes. “Neither was I.”

“But you’d been ready to get married.”

“Yes, alright. But I figured we’d have time. Years. Before having kids. And I figured we’d do it as husband and wife. But she changed all that.”

“I really thought you’d get it back,” Steve says, sliding Danny’s refilled drink back towards him, leaving his fingers lingering on the glass. Danny lets his fingers brush against Steve’s as he moves to take the glass. They sit there like that for a moment. Steve looks deeply into Danny’s eyes. “And for a while I was right.”

Danny withdraws his hand. “Only because you left.”

Steve pulls his hand back too, almost as though it’s been burned. “You can’t know that.”

Danny’s glad he’s not holding the glass, because his hands clench into fists and it takes considerable restraint to keep from pounding them on the blue Formica table top. “Yes. I can.”

“Danny—”

“I _loved you_. I loved you more than I’d ever loved _anyone_.” The words are angrier than such words should be, but they’d never get spoken otherwise. He knows that. 

“ _Danny_....”

“ _What_.” 

He sounds angry but resigned. He feels _hurt_ but it’s so old a hurt. It’s well worn. And maybe a little faded. 

Steve swallows, pauses. “It wouldn’t have worked. Rachel... she wanted you back, I saw that. She was having your child. How could I hope to compete with that?”

“She broke my heart,” Danny says it like it explains everything. Sometimes it feels like it does. 

Steve looks into his eyes. “ _And so did I_.”

Danny sighs. “Why’d you come back?”

Steve goes perfectly still. For a count of ten at least. And then he draws a shaky breath. It’s like he’s steeling himself to reply. And then he laughs. It’s faint, it’s breathy, it’s bitter. “Is it completely trite to say _I’m ready to settle down_?” He sighs. “I’m getting too old for this life I’ve been living. Deb’s not getting any younger. Mary’s got a kid now. I want that. I want to be with my family.”

“Oh god, are you dying?”

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

“Why else would you say those things?”

“Because they’re true. Jesus, Danny. Can’t a guy grow up? Can’t I change my mind? Realize... realize what I threw away and want to make it better?”

“So, you spontaneously decide you want a family after all, and think, _hey I have one ready made, I’ll just slip right back into that and no one will mind_?”

“Shit, Danny. Would you like some salt to rub in my wounds?”

Steve knows it’s the wrong thing to have said as soon as he’s said it, Danny can tell. And he knows he shouldn’t react. Knows it’ll make it worse. But he can’t help it. 

“ _Your_ wounds? Seriously. Your wounds, Steven? What about mine? You left me, right when I needed you most. Right when my life turned completely upside down, you ran. And _you’re_ the one with wounds?”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I am absolutely not saying you don’t have wounds. I admitted I broke your heart. I know I did. I just... I figured if I stayed you’d eventually break mine.”

Danny breathes for a long time before he replies. When he finally does, it’s barely above a whisper. “I _wouldn’t_ have. And _fuck you_ for thinking that.”

“How many times have you gotten back with her?”

Danny scoffs.

“How many,” Steve’s insistent but gentle. Like he thinks it makes it easier. It doesn’t. It makes it so much worse. 

Danny sighs. “Three. But again, _you goddamn fucking_. Were. Not. Here.”

Steve pauses. Like he’s considering admitting something. He finally slumps, and it comes out like a confession:

“I _did_ come back.”

It’s like all the air is sucked out of the room. Danny inhales, but feels nothing. “ _What_.” It’s barely a word. It’s not a question. 

Steve somehow draws a breath in the airless room, though it’s shakier than he’d probably like. Certainly it’s shakier than Danny would have imagined. 

“I came back, like a year later. Saw the three of you. Perfect little family. I only stayed one night, didn’t even see Deb.” 

Danny’s heart sinks into his stomach. He rubs his hands into his eyes and he groans. “That must have been right around her first birthday. Yeah, okay, we had a couple lovely times, pretending to be a family.” He wants to grab hold of Steve’s hands. But he doesn’t dare. So he sits on his own. “But they never lasted. She always left again. Lied again. Hurt me again.” He blinks back tears, but when they fall he lets them. “She took Grace away, Steve. Back to London. For almost a _year_. I had to fight to get her home.”

Now Steve looks like the air’s been let completely out of the room. “God, Danny. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well....” He shrugs. It was the worst year of his life, but it’s old news. It’s still raw. But it’s old. 

Steve looks utterly distressed. “I should have been there for you.” As if he could have done anything if he had been. Still... it’s not like Danny hadn’t wished it a thousand times himself. 

“Yes. You should have.” It feels strangely good to admit.

Steve takes it. A pause. He reaches his hands out across the table. “I am so sorry.”

It’s too much. He’s not ready to forgive. He can’t. Even though he knows he wants to. He pinches himself under the table, hoping it will make his words carry more vehemence. “So, what. I’m supposed to just let you back in now?”

Steve, wisely, doesn’t answer that. 

Danny huffs out a long breath, till he can’t breathe out any more. “I have to get back home. I need some sleep. A clear head.”

“Yeah, of course.” 

Steve sounds defeated. Danny softens.

“I need some time....”

He nods. “Whatever you need,” Steve says, but there’s no hope there. Only regret.

Danny just can’t take it right now. He gets up. He walks to the door. And Steve lets him.

  
Deb plays for Steve the next night. And the one after that. Danny’s not at all sure how he makes it through the days. 

Saturday, when Danny shows up early to get stuff ready for the weekend, Steve’s already there, sitting at the piano, playing something vaguely familiar that Danny can’t quite place. Then he hears Steve start to sing. Softly at first, then slowly with more confidence.

“ _I spoke to you in cautious tones, you answered me with no pretense... And still I feel I said too much. My silence is my self defense_.”

Recognition sinks into Danny’s flesh with a jolt. Steve had done a regular “Piano Man” set at the club back in the day, before the club was fully Danny’s, when they were trying new things. They’d never really had a song they considered _theirs_ —easy to skip when your livelihood consists almost entirely of music. But Danny loved this song, and he’d always secretly thought of it as theirs. He realizes now that Steve probably did too. 

Steve mumbles the next few lines, about roses and thorns, and silence being a mistake, then comes in louder at the chorus. 

“ _And so it goes, and so it goes. And so will you, soon, I suppose_.” Danny walks closer. Steve looks up at him. “ _So I would choose to be with you. That's if the choice were mine to make. But you can make decisions too, and you can have this heart to break_.”

Danny tries to swallow, finds it’s a lot harder than it should be.

He sings the last chorus more sedately, looking back down at the keys. “ _And so it goes, and so it goes. And you're the only one who knows_.”

The last chord fades slowly away, and as it does, it feels like it takes with it Danny’s remaining, faded resentment. The silent air feels different somehow. Maybe like it’s been cleaned.

“I wouldn’t, you know.” Danny’s upset to find he’s crying. “Break your heart. Not even now. I wouldn’t have then.”

“You’re a better man than I,” Steve says softly, as he stands and moves closer. 

Danny wants to protest, he knows it’s not true. Knows he needs Steve to redeem himself. So he offers up a way. “You could make it up to us.”

“... ‘Us’?” Steve asks, hopeful for the first time, taking another step towards Danny.

“You’ve got a lot to catch up on, if you want Grace in your life.”

“I have no idea how to be a parent,” Steve says, right up against Danny now.

Danny smiles sadly. “Neither did I.”

“Will you teach me?”

“It never stops,” Danny warns. “I have no idea how to do the next bit. I never do, until I’m doing it.” He pauses. Lets his hands rest on Steve’s hips. “But they say it’s easier when you have someone to share it with....”

“If that’s you offering, I’m saying _yes_....”

Danny takes a deep breath, reaches up as Steve leans down, and when their lips meet, it’s immediate and it’s overwhelming, it’s instantly too much. It’s nowhere near enough.

Which of course is when Deb walks in. 

“Well it’s about time. Now. We have a show to put on, boys!”

And if her entire set that night, from  _’S Wonderful_ , to _Our Love is Here to Stay_ , seems to all be about love... finding love, reclaiming love, the all-importance of love.... Well eventually everyone on staff picks up on it, but only those who stay long enough to watch their boss leave with the piano player, walking hand in hand, only those few understand the reason for the evening’s theme. 

And six months later, if she sings some of those same songs in her back garden, under an arbor of flowers, wearing a pale blue dress that matches the one Grace wears, well that’s just perfectly fitting, isn’t it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional Content Note: The domestic abuse is of a pregnant woman, by her boyfriend, who is not the baby’s father. A black eye and a cut to her face. The baby is fine.


	11. Double Oh Steven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny’s a London caterer, specializing mainly in fairly intimate celebrity parties, thanks to the connections of his best friend and movie stunt and security driver, Harry. When Danny lands a gig as personal chef to the actor playing the new James Bond, it brings his celebrity relationships to a whole new level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is no doubt one of the most self-indulgent things I’ve ever written. It was probably inevitable, a twist on the whole Alex-screen-tested-for-Bond thing, making Steve play the part. As for the delightful things that followed, I hadn’t even begun to imagine the possibilities.... It wound up being rather wordy (it’s 10k!), but hopefully you will find it pleasurable, especially if you’re a Bond fan. ;-) 
> 
> Side note for the Harry Langford fans—if you haven’t managed to see Chris Vance in the TV series “Transporter,” I highly recommend a search for some clips online. His driving is worse (better?) than Steve’s. (Here’s a [ three minute long edit](https://youtu.be/VZMOkYsCPe0) of some driving, to set the mood....)

Danny paused in his reading to swirl the olive in his glass, watching the fingers of vodka slowly slither down the sides of the crystal. He was pretty sure Harry’d only shown the bottle of vermouth to the shaker, and used none of the actual liquid.

“That’s a ridiculous amount of eggs,” he said, somewhere between impressed and disgusted.

Harry glanced up at him. “Better surely than the typical actor, with raw greens like a sheep?”

Danny chuckled. “Rabbit. And, yes, I suppose so.”

Harry grinned, that slightly teasing grin of his that always made Danny’s insides gooey, even though they’d never so much as kissed. He paused his rubbing of Danny’s feet, taking a long sip of his own martini— _shaken not stirred_ in honor of the occasion—then returned to his work with renewed, but still tender, focus. Danny sighed into the soothing touch, sinking further into his chair, went back to learning about his new client.

“How’d he even know about me? He’s from Hawaii.”

“I guess you catered a party he was at, when he was here for auditions. Liked your food. His agent asked specifically for you, said he wouldn’t have anyone else.”

“Huh, well, up till the time he was announced I’d never even heard of him, so I guess I can see I could have met him and just not remember.”

Danny mentally ran through the events he’d catered in London over the past year that had plausibly had actors attending. There were more than a few. Including an especially memorable one last summer, where he’d wound up making out with a really cute guy in the kitchen. He’d come in to see if there were more of Danny’s signature mini quiches, and had flirted his way into helping out with Danny’s prep. Throughout the entire event he kept coming back to the kitchen, and eventually had just stayed. They made out in the pantry after everyone else had gotten to the passed-out-on-the-patio phase of the party. Damn that had been fun. They hadn’t exchanged numbers, hadn’t even told each other their names, and he wasn’t one to do that ordinarily (okay, _ever_ ), though a few of his fellow caterers were known to supply “extra” services from time to time. Figuring it was likely McGarrett had been at that party, it would explain why Danny hadn’t noticed him.

“I’m still not convinced it will be worth my time. It’s a lot of work just for one person. What if we don’t get along? They want me to live in this crazy posh penthouse they’ve got him staying at. I’ll be stuck with him for months. I mean, it could be worse than my marriage.”

“Yes, but when it’s done, Danny, you’ll have enough money to take Grace on that European road trip you guys have been talking about for ages, and when you come back, you’ll have more catering gigs than you could possibly manage because everyone will want to hire the guy who was personal chef to the new James Bond. Trust me. It’ll be worth it.”

Harry had a point, of course. And, yes. A month long trip with his daughter before she headed south to attend university and he got to see her even less would be well worth it, he told himself.

He almost believed it, too. Till the next morning when Harry drove him to the penthouse to get set up. He’d gathered the few tools he’d need, knowing from the extensive notes he’d been given by the studio exactly how well the kitchen was appointed (far better than his own), and done the shopping according to the list supplied by McGarrett’s agent. The actor himself had not yet arrived—that’d been part of the plan, to have Danny settled before his arrival.

The penthouse was lavish and spacious. His room was just off the kitchen, and well on the other side of the apartment from the rest of the bedrooms, of which there were four, all with their own en suites. (Okay, so he checked the whole place out, just for the sake of having done so. He’d no idea how private the guy might be, and how little interaction they might have, so Danny’d felt justified in a little light snooping, get it out of his system so he could be solidly professional once the actor had taken the space over.)

Danny unpacked his few possessions, having tried in his packing to keep things simple, keep his presence in the elegant, modern space as light as he could. A photo of Grace on his bedside table was the only really personal item he’d brought. He set next to it the book he was reading, his glasses (mostly an affectation, if he was honest) on top, and his old-fashoned alarm clock to the side (no phone alarms could be trusted when making someone else’s breakfast was the first order of the day). His plain, sturdy, but lightweight caterer’s uniforms took up very little space in the enormous closet, and the few other clothes he’d brought filled only two drawers of the massive mirrored dresser. His toiletries only spread out over mere square inches of the pale marble swath of bathroom counter, though it always felt like he had too many on his tiny shelf at home.

He sat down on the plushly headboarded bed and found himself petting the sheets absently. Surely that fabric couldn’t be cotton, it felt far too much like silk.

Every luxury, every overstated fixture, every ostentatious ornament set Danny’s teeth on edge. He had nothing in common with this guy. He could only suppose he’d wind up feeling like a servant, and that made his stomach tighten uncomfortably.

The one thing he’d avoided doing was looking McGarrett up online. Grace had, and asked her dad if he had, but he’d told her—and it was true—that he didn’t want to prejudge the guy. You never knew how utterly false the public perception of an actor was anyway. And Danny was going to be living under the same roof with McGarrett for months. He felt his best shot of surviving was to know as little as possible going in.

Besides. He had the most important information. Dietary needs and food preferences. He’d focus on his job and try not to worry too much about the rest.

(Easier said than done, of course.)

He pulled himself together, tucked his phone in his pocket, and headed to the kitchen to get started on prep.

The nice thing was that a good number of things on the requested foods list were simple variations on Danny’s standard catering recipes. It made sense, in a way, that he’d been chosen—it seemed as though their tastes lined up remarkably well. (Other than the seemingly obsessive focus on protein.) Still, it wasn’t far outside the realm of his usual cooking, so he’d probably manage to mostly feel in his comfort zone. 

Which maybe was a mistake, as he slipped rather far inside said comfort zone, and failed utterly to notice the arrival of his, for all intents and purposes, flat-mate for the next three months.

“Well, this is the perfect way to make me feel at home.”

The voice was warm, amused, and maybe slightly teasing. And oddly familiar, considering Danny’d never even heard of the guy, let alone seen him in anything. He looked up, intending to apologize for not noticing his arrival, and he faltered slightly. He knew of course that celebrities often looked different by the light of day, and the only pictures he’d seen had the guy frowning seductively, dressed in a tux, posing with a gun in one hand, a beautiful woman in the other. In person the guy looked a lot more like he belonged on a beach with a board, waving a Shaka and squinting into the sun with a boyish grin.

“I’m Steve,” he offered when Danny continued to stare. And it might have been his imagination, but it seemed to Danny as though Steve perhaps was waiting for Danny to realize he was missing something. 

They exchanged a few pleasantries, talked briefly about logistics. Mostly, Steve insisted Danny should make himself as comfortable as he would at his own place. After all, it would be his home just as much as Steve’s. There was to be no awkward formality, no need for Danny to dress as though for work—leave the uniforms in the closet, please—sweats or jeans and tees helped Steve to feel more relaxed in his precious little free time. He actually paused and suggested Danny change right then and there, so Danny did, mirroring Steve’s own clothing choice—sweats and tee shirt, feet clad only in socks. Danny’s own typical at-home choice. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be so uncomfortable an assignment after all. 

All the while, Danny couldn’t shake the feeling that the guy was somehow familiar. It was weird, but it was almost like he  _smelled_ familiar. Maybe that was simply the faint whiff of coconut, though surely that was just Danny’s imagination.

Finally he couldn’t take it any longer.

“Have we met before?” He asked, and he probably should have been embarrassed by that—embarrassed to admit he didn’t know if they had, embarrassed to admit he hadn’t known who he was—but he was honestly too frustrated to be bothered. 

Steve grinned. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me or not. I didn’t want to presume....” He reached in the bag at his feet and pulled out a hat, placing it lightly atop his head. “Does this help?” He then pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket, and as soon as he slid them on Danny actually gasped.

“Oh my god how does that even work? That really shouldn’t work! How did I not.... Hang on. You had an accent...?”

Steve grimaced. “Yeah, that. Uh, the party was supposed to be kind of a test for me, trying my accent out on actual British people before the audition. But, um. I kind of spent most of the party with you, so....”

Danny was fairly sure he blushed. “Well, you fooled me.” And he laughed a little uncomfortably, as his surprise at the stereotypical celebrity disguise being so effective wore off, and in its place, several implications hit him at once. The likelihood that he’d been hired because Steve liked his kisses as much as his cooking warred with slightly seedier possibilities.

But Steve was prepared for that. “Don’t worry. You’re here solely on the basis of your cooking. Honest. They made me have a live-in chef, and as long as I had to, I figured it could at least be someone I knew I got along with, and someone who makes the best damn quiche I’ve ever had.”

Danny chuckled. How had he not recognized that? That simple ease, that straightforward manner. Of course now he recognized him as his make-out buddy from the summer kitchen session, he saw it. That same comfortable manner, it had put Danny enough at ease he’d been willing to make out while on the job. It had put him enough at ease not five minutes earlier to change into his comfy lounge clothes in front of a celebrity, one who was technically his boss for the time being. 

Yeah, Danny realized, he’ll make a fine James Bond. He’ll have the audience eating out of his hand before the intro sequence is through. 

But while Danny eased at Steve’s reassurances, he simultaneously ached at the memory of their touches. Living under the same roof could wind up being torture. Exquisite torture, but torture nonetheless.

Taking the reference to his cooking as a coping device, Danny offered to make Steve a quiche right then and there, as he’d just made a batch of crusts to keep in the freezer.

“Can you teach me?” Steve asked, tossing the hat back in the bag, but leaving the glasses on. Danny was glad for that, as he hoped it might help him transition from nameless-cute-guy-of-the-incredibly-hot-kitchen-make-out-session to Steve-who’s-basically-now-my-boss-oh-yeah-and-James-Bond. 

Thankfully it worked. (Mostly.)

And so they spent a good part of their first day of living together in the kitchen, mixing eggs and cream and meat and veg into a variety of combinations, eating some, freezing others, and honestly having a relaxing, comfortable, companionable time.

They sat, later that night, out on the large private patio overlooking the city, sipping a lovely sweet, fruity white, munching on nuts and fruit and cheese, chatting about things having nothing to do with movies or food. 

Except for a conversation about scheduling. 

While Danny’s contract stipulated he was obligated to provide for three meals a day, seven days a week, it was not, Steve wanted it clear, expected for him to personally see to Steve consuming each and every one of those meals. The studio’s craft services and Steve’s on-set assistant were both available to help. And, he asserted, despite how his agent felt about the situation, he wasn’t actually incapable of feeding himself. 

“Tani is a little over-protective. And she likes to pretend I’m an idiot.” 

There was warmth in his tone, despite the eye role, and Danny couldn’t help but smile. Steve’s agent was an old friend from home, and she’d made it clear to Danny that he would try to pretend to be capable of taking care of himself.  _Don’t fall for it_ , she’d warned him, with laughter and fondness flooding her voice. 

“You can stick to providing food for me to take to the set and stay here, doing breakfast before I go and something when I get back at night,” Steve suggested. “Or you can come to the studio and see to everything yourself. I don’t know if you’ve done this before? But. They’re long days. I don’t want to presume you’ll spend them all at the studio. On the other hand, it is Pinewood, and if you want that experience.... Your pay is the same either way. So it’s up to you.”

Danny’d thought about it already, after what Tani had told him, and he’d come to the conclusion that it would depend at least in part on how well they got along. 

“I _would_ like to see what it’s like,” he admitted. “But obviously being there all day means I don’t have time for cooking, so it’s not realistic to go every day.” 

Steve seemed glad that Danny was at least interested in going, and he grinned, kicking his feet out under the low glass coffee table littered with the remains of their definitely-not-according-to-the-contract, and technically not-really-dinner. Danny was glad Steve didn’t have a live-in assistant. For more reasons than one. 

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” Steve said, sounding decidedly pleased. 

  
What they ended up figuring out, over the first several days, was exactly why Tani had insisted on Steve having a personal chef. Although she probably should have specified “and bullying caretaker,” because it was swiftly evident that Tani wasn’t completely wrong. Steve was essentially a great big fluffy dog. Loyal and capable and willing to work hard, but not really very good at taking care of himself. Danny found that if he didn’t point out to Steve that he needed to eat, he was perfectly willing to keep filming far past the time any normal human would have required medical intervention. 

But the days were tedious and long, and Steve’s assistant Eleanor had been chosen well, and she proved reasonably capable of wrangling Steve, so they worked out that Danny would stay at the studio the first part of most days, make sure Steve ate well at least once (though often it was several smaller meals, and Danny learned to make those snacks as hearty and fuel-filled as possible), but then Eleanor would take over Steve duty, and Harry would drive him back to the penthouse, where he’d do his prep and planning for the following day. He’d nap, eat something, then be awake when Steve got home, exhausted but also wired, and Danny would feed him light but satisfying meals heavy on the tryptophan, so he’d sleep well and be up, refreshed, ready to go again in the morning. 

It wasn’t long before a noticeable variance in Steve’s energy and performance was linked, by certain of the production staff, to the presence or absence of Danny on the set. 

Steve’s assistant, and his costumer Em, became especially fond of Danny, and only partly because he fed them, too. 

“He’s so much more pliable when you’re here,” Eleanor admitted to Danny one day as he got her to taste-test two different versions of hummus. 

“He fidgets less with my costumes when you’re on set,” Em confided over a new flavor of smoothie a few days later.

Danny certainly didn’t mind hearing it, and he wasn’t as surprised as he might have been if he hadn’t felt nearly the same thing himself, in his own reactions to Steve’s presence in his kitchen. 

Now, ordinarily Danny didn’t let anyone in the kitchen while he cooked. Harry knew better than to interrupt Danny while he was at the stove. And even Grace, when she visited, stayed out of the kitchen while he worked. But Steve, right from the very beginning last summer, had just waltzed right in, not even questioning if he’d be allowed. And the weird thing had been, Danny’d let him. 

Add to that, Steve having asked Danny to teach him to make quiche? And he _had_ , without even a second thought—and that had been unusual enough. But then Steve would just hang out in the kitchen while Danny cooked. And he didn’t wait to be served, like Danny might have expected of someone who’d hired a personal chef. He sat on the counter, stuck his nose in Danny’s pots, helped wash up, snuck samples. He got in Danny’s face, under his feet, and even, dangerously, in the way of his knife. 

And Danny, miraculously, didn’t mind at all.

Not only that... he _liked_ it. 

He found Steve’s presence in the kitchen inspired him. It buoyed his spirits, made his food better, pushed him to try new things, take more chances, have a little more fun with his flavors. 

When Steve was in Danny’s kitchen, Danny’s food just wound up being better.

So, yeah. He understood how his presence around Steve on the set might make _his_ performance better as well. 

And throughout it all, there wasn’t any awkward sexual tension. Which isn’t to say there wasn’t any sexual tension full stop. There was. But it was the good kind. The  _we already know we have great chemistry but now’s not really the time for a relationship plus there’s that whole power issue because technically we’re in a boss/employee relationship right now but you never know what might happen after because did we mention the whole really good at kissing thing_ kind. Mostly, they both seemed more interested in getting to know one another, becoming friends. And frankly, it was really, really nice. 

So it wasn’t too surprising when they started doing stuff together outside of either the studio or the kitchen.

It began sensibly enough. Steve had asked to watch Harry filming the car chase scenes. And as he needed to replicate the car interior shots, he had requested that Harry himself be filmed, so Steve could watch both side by side. And as Danny’d never gotten to watch Harry work, he decided to tag along. 

If he’d thought more carefully about that he might have realized it wasn’t exactly a smart move. He’d avoided mentioning to Harry that Steve was in fact his kitchen romance of the summer before, because he knew full well what Harry would do with that information. 

Danny should have guessed that he would figure it out.

When Steve had learned that Harry his personal driver would also be Harry his stunt driver for the film’s car chases, he had tried to get Harry to teach him to drive. Having been through that before with other actors, Harry knew how to stand his ground—it would absolutely be the end of his career if he endangered one of his clients—and Steve had conceded the logic of that and dropped it, though it was plain he was disappointed. As if to make up for it, Harry had taken to narrating their daily commute, pointing out things about driving and traffic, all of which Steve had eagerly devoured, much to Harry’s delight. 

That had soon led to other conversations and realizations of interests the two shared. Including living with Danny. Which, naturally, led to them both teasing Danny, and sharing their amusement over what they considered Danny’s more endearing qualities. Like his inability to function without caffeine. 

“It didn’t take me long to work out that if I don’t want my morning eggs burnt I need to get up before him and make the coffee,” Steve had admitted. 

Danny didn’t protest that jab mostly because the reality was a lot closer to Steve half the time ending up making the eggs himself and feeding Danny breakfast, rather than the other way round, and he was very grateful that Steve chose not to share that tidbit with Harry. Though from the amused look Harry gave Danny in the rearview mirror, he might have guessed as much. 

The point is, while Harry’d spent a bit of time with Steve and Danny, he hadn’t seen them interacting outside of those commutes. Until that day filming. 

And maybe it was the first time Danny realized there was anything so telling in their behaviors towards each other, outside the whole performance/cooking-being-better thing, nether of which, obviously, applied in this situation. 

To be fair, Harry tended to be aware of people’s interactions in general, but maybe particularly Danny’s, as he knew him so well. And he’d long ago given up trying to fix Danny up with anyone, so maybe it was just simply unavoidable that he’d notice that Danny was different around Steve.

That must have been it, because Danny really hadn’t thought there’d been anything very notable in their behavior, but nonetheless he caught Harry glancing their way between takes, expression thoughtful, then curious, then smug. 

Danny cornered him the first moment he could, but Harry simply grinned and patted him on the back. 

“I’m glad you found him,” he said. 

Stammering and wanting to protest there wasn’t anything going on, Danny hadn’t been able to form a coherent sentence, which of course only confirmed Harry’s guess. 

He didn’t say anything else about it, however, and the interactions between the three of them during their drives didn’t change, for which Danny was grateful. But Harry did watch them more closely after that. 

  
The first time Danny accompanied Steve to a movie related event wasn’t long after the chase scene filming. It was a low key gathering at a minor aristocrat’s tumble down but still lovely country house, not far from the studio. 

Steve had begged Danny to go with him. “This whole aristocracy thing is not my comfort zone. You at least have lived here longer, you know it far better than I do. Please come with me?”

Danny’d protested that he wasn’t important enough, which made Steve scoff. Then he’d protested that he (quite literally) didn’t have a thing to wear, which had made Steve grimace embarrassedly. 

“Okay, don’t freak out, because this probably makes me seem, well, a bit like Bond, actually. But I kind of had a suit picked out for you.”

And, yes, Danny had been a little thrown by that, but then Steve had explained.

“So, evidently Em has this ability where she can size people she’s been around, without needing to measure them. And I might have mentioned to her that I wanted a suit for you—God that’s horribly presumptuous isn’t it. I’m sorry.”

He looked so mortified, Danny’s heart just flumped. And okay, it was slightly awkward, but it was also sweet in an odd way, and alright, Danny’d been a tad flattered. (Yes, fine, more than a tad.) And he thought he’d probably have a miserable time, but then that just made him all the more sure he shouldn’t let Steve go on his own, so he agreed to go with him. Then when Steve showed him the suit Em had picked out, a gorgeous grey flannel, the kind of suit only the Brits truly do well, he found himself thinking it wouldn’t be the most awful thing in the world, to be dressed by professionals and forced to accompany a stunningly handsome celebrity to posh events. (You know, just for a little while anyway.)

They had a surprisingly nice time, stiff formality and idle small talk notwithstanding, and Danny got some food inspiration from it as well. The only awkward part of the evening had been Harry’s smug grin when he held the car door for Danny. At least he hadn’t winked, but Danny was pretty sure it had been a near thing.

  
The second time, Steve didn’t even ask. He simply left the invitation to dinner with a famous business mogul and several of his associates out on the counter, a freshly pressed suit, midnight blue this time, complete with shirt, tie, and actual pocket square, hanging in a garment bag on one of the kitchen cabinet knobs. The dinner was at a restaurant Danny never would have gotten into on his own, and he wasn’t sure if Steve knew that or not, but he couldn’t justify missing the opportunity to check it out. You know, professionally. 

That time Harry really did wink, but at least he didn’t comment on the clothes.

And it had been worth it. If only for Danny to prove to himself that just because a restaurant had a two year long waiting list didn’t mean the food was anything spectacular, and when they got home, Steve practically bolted for the freezer, grabbed one of the quiches, tossed it in the oven to reheat, then opened a bottle of wine and spent a good half hour telling Danny how much he loved his food and how he was so glad he didn’t have to survive on that over-the-top molecular gastronomy stuff. 

  
The third time was something a little more public. It was a sightseeing tour, in London, in broad daylight, with official studio photographers. You know, here’s Bond looking at the Gherkin, here’s Bond watching the Changing of the Guard, here’s Bond having a pint. And honestly Danny hadn’t thought anything of it. And he figured probably Steve hadn’t either. But someone had. Because that was when the rumors started.

He heard about it first from Grace.

They’d been up early the next morning, and out the door fairly quickly, to get to the studio ahead of rush hour traffic. There was a strict no-phones-on-set policy during certain scenes, so it hadn’t been till lunch break at around one o’clock that he’d checked his phone and seen the message from his daughter.

_I know you don’t follow social media but you might want to start_....

And a link to a Twitter thread speculating on a possible real-life love interest for the new Bond.

There was a photo, not fabulous quality, obviously captured with a zoom, but it was clearly Danny. And it was equally clear that Steve was standing closer to him than one might imagine standing to one’s personal chef. Especially if they’d known they were being photographed.

So when an official photograph was released the next day, along with an amusingly ambiguous caption about Steve and his “long time friend and personal chef,” Danny could only laugh.

“ _Long time_ , huh? They’re stretching that a bit, aren’t they?” 

“They think it’s good publicity,” Steve explained as he apologized over coffee (which he’d made, of course), and they stared at the picture Steve had pulled up on his phone. It was quite a nice photo of them both. And it wasn’t difficult to see why it might lead people to wonder. “Do you hate letting them speculate? I could deny it. It’ll piss PR off, they want people talking about it. But I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

It was sweet, really, Danny thought, that Steve would do that—go against the studio’s wishes and his own best interest publicity-wise, and squash speculation about a potential love interest—just for the sake of Danny’s comfort. He knew enough about the reality of being a celebrity to understand it was no small thing, having the public’s interest. Especially as Steve’s personal life before landing the role had been virtually non-existent—which had been a problem that had almost kept him from getting the part in the first place.

“No, don’t deny it. It’s okay with me.” It was easy to admit. (Less easy to admit _why_ he didn’t mind.) But then something occurred to him. Something Grace and Harry had both tried to hint at, in messages to him the day before, but Danny’d been too dismissive of their concerns to fully consider. It seemed important to consider it now. “Hang on though. The studio wouldn’t pressure you to play it up, would they?” 

Danny knew there were rumors of that sort of thing happening. Usually between co-stars, to drum up fan interest. But maybe they thought this was even better—as Harry'd helpfully pointed out, Danny, not a star but just a “regular person,” was the perfect Everyman that anyone could imagine themselves as. He’d rolled his eyes at the implied insult, but he saw the point. And it was one thing to assume two actors might pull such a stunt off, another to imagine a “regular person” might be willing or able to go along with the studio’s wishes. He personally didn’t think there was much he’d have to do, to really give the impression they really were together. But he wasn’t sure he could do that without it becoming true.

Honestly he wasn’t sure if he hoped the answer was “yes” or “no.”

Steve gritted his teeth and let out a regretful sigh. “My contract is unfortunately ambiguous on that front, which is why they were able to release the photo without my permission in the first place. That being said, I don’t think they would force anything. But, Tani did say the studio has made it clear they won’t complain if we keep people guessing.”

All of which was interesting information, but it didn’t tell Danny how Steve felt about the situation. And the fact he seemed more concerned with Danny’s feelings than his own was touching, but similarly unhelpful. 

“You’re the celebrity,” Danny pointed out. “You’ve got the image to maintain. I’m not going to complain about being thought of as your _longtime friend_. As Harry has suggested, it’ll be great for my business.”

And as soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted how mercenary they sounded. How like he was using Steve for business purposes. But Steve laughed it off with his customary ease. “Fair enough. Well, we’ll leave it for now, but probably we should be more aware of how it looks when we’re in public together.” 

And in Steve’s defense, he proved that he was keenly aware of exactly how it looked. 

Now, clearly, he was an actor. And Danny’d watched him filming several scenes where he very comfortably had used his wiles to get what he needed from someone. Either through flattery, outright flirting, or even that subtle step closer to seduction. (The more intimate scenes were filmed on a closed set, and Eleanor had suggested that Danny could get in if he wanted. But he wasn’t at all sure he _did_ want.) 

The point was, Steve knew how to turn it on and turn it off. And he knew just how a hand firmly at Danny’s lower back as they walked into a restaurant would look. And how the angle that he leaned in towards Danny while they sat at the bar indicated their level of intimacy. And maybe he couldn’t precisely control the look in his eyes as he laughed at some comment Danny made about the canapés, but it sure seemed like maybe he could. 

He walked that perfect line. Never falling too deep into “yep, that’s it, they are totally sleeping together,” but likewise never straying very far from “ohhh, that sure looks like they’re more than _just friends_.”

Danny found it exhilarating and also exhausting, as he remained in a near-perpetual state of uncertainty over the true nature of their relationship. 

But in private, at the penthouse, things were increasingly, blissfully, comfortable and easy. And, yes, bordering on intimate.

They cooked together, cleaned up together. They ran lines on the balcony over a bottle of wine and take out (because Indian food in London is fantastic and because, despite what his contract and Danny himself might assert, Danny needed the occasional night off, according to Steve). They watched snatches of those movies that skirted close to but were not actual Bond movies. They fell asleep on the sofa, thighs close enough to feel body heat, nearly pressing against each other, but not quite. 

There ceased being any doubt that Danny would be Steve’s plus one at all studio events, and someone in charge of scheduling made sure there was time, at least one night a week, for the cast to be seen at some event. A gallery opening, a public art exhibit, a pop up restaurant, or simply a fish and chips truck down by the Thames. And each time there was a gaggle of ogling crowd. Always polite, increasingly enthusiastic, escalatingly enamored.

It wasn’t long before speculation about their relationship reached a sort of fever pitch, within the celebrity-followers and especially within the Bond fandom. Which mostly was a really positive thing.

Because the thing is, there was always going to be hesitation over the switch to a new Bond. Comparisons to those who’d played the iconic role before were unavoidable, and fulfilling expectations was virtually impossible at least initially. Steve had weathered the bumps and criticisms with a relaxed acceptance that Danny found admirable. But the possibility of a not-quite-on-set romance had swayed more than a few reluctant fans to Steve’s side. There would always be those who doubted the new guy’s ability to live up to the infamous double oh. But the distraction of Danny was helping to ease the way. 

It was also providing the more exuberant and creative amongst the fan base with a warm-up exercise of sorts. 

Again, it was Grace who was Danny’s information source. 

She’d sent him a text earlier that day warning him to stay off the internet if he didn’t wasn’t to see a series of drawings by various artists of Steve as Bond in the customary tux, along with Danny in a chef’s hat and varying degrees of precious little else—assorted food and kitchen items strategically placed for the sake of discretion. But when she called that evening, she had additional information to impart.

“Danno, there’s _fic_ ,” she whined at him, as he sat out on the balcony drinking a glass of red, watching the lights of the city slowly turn on. 

His initial thought was along the lines of _I should have seen that coming_ , but his next made him nearly drop his glass.

“ _Oh god_ don’t read it don’t read it don’t read it!”

“Daaad, eeew. You don’t have to tell me that. But all my friends _are reading it_.”

And in response to that his  _oh god_ was swiftly eclipsed by, well, curiosity, of course.

“....So? Is it any good?”

Grace practically growled. “I’m hanging up now. Love you bye.”

“Love you monkey,” he replied, swallowing his amusement, then downing the rest of his wine, he sat, staring idly at his phone. As if daring it to be so bold as to taunt him with such alluring insight. 

He set his phone on the coffee table, took his glass inside to refill it, put Steve’s too-late-to-call-it-dinner in to heat, poured some nut mix into a small bowl, on second thought got down a larger bowl and added some chocolate, and took the bowl and the glass back outside. 

His phone was still sitting there. Dark, glittering slightly in the soft patio light, offering a glimpse into a world Danny wasn’t at all certain he wanted to be aware of. 

But it was really fucking tempting.

He’d read fanfic, of course. Coming in contact with celebrities in their more relaxed and open states as he did, meeting them at small, private, unphotographed parties, he’d heard many of their reactions to fandom in general. Some carried fanart on their phones and shared their latest favorites—either out of pride or amusement, depending on the person. And there were always those who got upset. Or pretended to be unaware. Or genuinely couldn’t be bothered. But there were those who read and followed with interest, those who saw it as an extension of their own craft. Another layer, not unlike action figures or canon comics or even blooper reels or on set amusements and pranks and jokes or commentary. 

And Danny was nothing if not open minded. Heck. His cooking, after all, was often, in a very real sense, fanart of the chefs he admired. And creativity was, to his mind, creativity, and something to be encouraged, never looked down upon. 

But he had to admit, it was slightly different when it was _himself_ in question. 

He was perfectly willing to concede that it was ninety percent or more because the very idea that there would ever be anything of the sort about _him_ had literally never even occurred to him.

And now that it existed, he found himself utterly unsure how he felt about it. 

He sucked on a piece of chocolate and thumbed open the lock screen on his phone. It would be so simple. Pull up one of the tabs he no doubt still had open on one of the popular fan sites. The matter of a couple words in a search bar... maybe just see how many results it got, not actually look at any of them....

He set his phone down, screen face up, grabbed for his wine, and washed the chocolate down, the creamy richness combining with the drying tannins in the red making him pucker. 

His phone’s screen stayed lit. Like it was on alert. Just in case he decided to pick it back up. He glared at it, as though it wasn’t helping him think clearly. Not that the wine was either. He set the glass down and pushed it carefully away, across the table, and took another piece of chocolate. It was entirely possible that a good eighty percent of why he was even considering looking had something to do with the low levels of ongoing, unresolved tension of a sexual nature that filled his airspace on a daily basis. In all probability the better thing to do would be to take matters literally into his own hands. But even that felt morally questionable to him in the moment.

He was still sitting there when he got Harry’s standard _On our way_ text. At this time of night it should only take them half an hour or so to get home.

Huh. _Home_ , we’re calling it now, are we? He shook his head at himself and wrote back to Harry. 

_Miss you. Miss home. Miss our talks. Miss your foot rubs_.

He knew Harry was driving and wouldn’t write back, but it felt good to say it. Maybe he’d try and have a real visit with Harry soon. You know, something not in a car or over a phone. He found he missed Harry’s amused practicality. Wondered what his advice would be in this situation. 

He’d probably offer to read the stories out loud. 

(Maybe talking with him wasn’t such a good idea after all.)

He got lost in a vague tangle of randomly associated thoughts, startled out of it only when Steve appeared in the patio doorway, plate of warmed up food in his hand. He took one look at Danny’s face, expression showing goodness knows what, but obviously telling, and he sighed. 

“You heard.”

Danny felt his eyebrows go up, but he didn’t say anything. 

Steve reached across the table for Danny’s abandoned glass of wine and took a slow, thoughtful sip, almost as though it was helping him to find the words he needed. _Interview tactic_ , it struck him. Drink to cover the pause while you process. 

“Does Grace know?”

Danny leveled him a look.

“Of course. She’s the one who told you.”

They’d still not met, Grace and Steve, mostly because their schedules were mightily incompatible at the moment, but they had developed something of a rapport over text and the phone. It had started one evening Steve had come home early, and Danny’d been busy cooking (making a fresh, real meal for them both on the rare occasion Steve was done at a civilized hour), when Grace had called, expecting her usual evening chat with her dad. As he’d been up to his wrists in dough, Steve had answered. 

He won himself major points in Danny’s book that first conversation, as Grace had been particularly fiery, pushing Steve on some of the more problematic aspects of the Bond franchise’s history, and Steve had responded admirably. He’d conceded the right points, held firm on those closest to his own heart (those happened to parallel Danny’s own soft spots, unsurprisingly), and had (in a move that was perhaps not entirely professional or wise, but had worked in his favor nonetheless) confessed to Grace that he’d nearly turned down the role for some of those very reasons. But then they’d told him the script took Daniel Craig’s Bond’s insinuations about his sexuality a step further and featured Bond kissing not just women, but another man as well. When that had piqued his interest, they’d offered to put it in his contract that the next movie would go a step further than that, and Steve had been swayed. 

Danny wasn’t sure if this had won him Grace’s favor for philosophical reasons or slightly more personal, Danny shaped reasons. Perhaps a little of both. 

They’d kept up a surprisingly regular texting schedule after that. Him providing no doubt more information than he ought about the progress of filming—and his co-stars. He also provided Grace with information Danny would have preferred she not have, about Danny’s own habits and schedule. Such as his lack of regular exercise. Or enough protein or vegetables. Which he only knew Steve was sharing because Grace had seemed to develop a knack of cross examining him about his self care (or lack thereof) just precisely the evening after a day he’d done particularly not well in that regard. He’d naturally grown suspicious, mentioned it to Steve, who’d had the decency to look instantly guilty and confess he was Grace’s inside source. But the texts hadn’t stopped.

Steve set the empty wineglass down and studied Danny’s expression. 

“You read anything? Look at anything?”

Danny shook his head.

“Yeah, me neither.” Steve chuckled, a self-deprecating sound and corresponding shrug-like gesture. “I always said I would. But somehow....”

Danny hmmm’ed. “Why is it different?”

“Can’t you guess?” Steve picked up his plate. 

Okay, that was interesting. “No...?”

Steve pressed his lips together. “Well. For me at least, it’s obvious. I don’t want to read the fantasy. I want the real thing.” He held Danny’s eyes while he said it, but then looked down at his food, and making it clear he didn’t expect an answer, proceeded to eat.

Danny wasn’t sure how shocked he should be by that admission. He’d suspected, of course. You know, given the way Steve had been pushing things in public. Not that he didn’t think Steve was a good actor and could have been doing it purely for the publicity. But he did think there was a lot of Steve’s actual self in his performances. And he’d imagined that held true of their public “performances” as well. 

He also wasn’t going to kid himself and imagine the fan speculation derived entirely from Steve’s demeanor and actions. Danny had never been so highly photographed, and he’d had ample opportunity see the way he looked at Steve, captured in print (or on his phone screen, as the case may be). It definitely wasn’t the way he looked at Harry—and he’d loved Harry for years. No, Danny knew a good portion of the “shippers” derived their fodder from Danny himself. 

Still. They’d established a very comfortable routine. One that was remarkably satisfying to Danny (so much so that he’d had more than a few moments of panic as to how he might adjust once this incredible time was past), and one that had become very necessary for Steve. (Danny had a folder full of messages from Tani to prove it. She’d started trying to get him to agree to do all of Steve’s future movies. So far he’d avoided giving a straight answer.) And technically they were still bound by a vague sort of employee/employer relationship—an admittedly unconventional one, yes, and legally they were in truth both employed by the production company, but theoretically it made things... complicated.

There was that impending end in sight of course. The last official day of filming loomed on the horizon. Not that he was counting or anything, but he was aware of its approach. 

Steve seemed to be as well, because it wasn’t long after that evening Danny got a text from Grace.

_OMG. What the actual heck dad?_

He was on set, but they were on a lighting break, and everyone was on their phones. He was sitting next to Steve, as they often did, and when he looked up, shocked by his daughter’s message, he saw Steve looking guilty.

“What did you do?”

Steve bit his lip but then grinned. 

“Well, we’re filming the Q Branch scenes next week, and I told Ben about Grace. He must have invited her to come watch filming.”

And of course. One of the primary topics Steve and Grace had—ahem—bonded over was their mutual fondness of both Q and Ben Whishaw himself. 

Steve had told Danny that it was in no small part because of his chemistry with Ben that he’d gotten the part in the first place. The relationship between Bond and his quartermaster had always been pivotal, but never so huge as when replacing Daniel Craig. If Q adored the new Bond, the theory went, the fans would too. And Ben, it turned out, very much adored Steve.

Enough, evidently, to do a favor for him to help seal the good favor of his personal chef, through the affections of his daughter who had always loved Q best and adored Ben’s Q above all others. 

“You gave my daughter’s cell number to a stranger?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at Danny, who conceded the point. Ben wasn’t exactly a danger. “Yeah, okay. But no gift I ever get her will equal this, you realize.”

Steve grinned as though that had been entirely the point.

Danny chuckled and shook his head. “She’d have liked you anyway, you know. Without all this.”

And he hadn’t maybe thought how much that might mean to Steve, hearing those words, but he softened visibly, his eyes flashing a more intense green. He lowered his head, and lowered his tone.

“If we weren’t on set I’d ask if I could kiss you right now.”

Danny pressed his lips together to keep from smiling, felt his eyes dilate, his cheeks heat. He looked around. All the actors and assistants had their heads down and glued to their phones, all the crew were focused on their work. Danny leaned closer to Steve, and Steve moved in. It was just a light press of lips. It was nothing compared to their kisses of the summer before. But it felt easy and comfortable and familiar. And that felt wonderful.

“I saw that,” Eleanor whispered delightedly, not looking up from her phone, but holding her hand, fingers waggling, towards Em, who groaned, but reached in her pocket and handed her what looked like a wad of cash. 

“You couldn’t have waited till next week, could you,” Em groused at Steve, who startled, but then laughed. 

“I’ll pay you back whatever you lost.”

“In that case, it’s about damn time.”

And if Steve wanted to hear more about that, he didn’t get the chance to ask, because the lighting was finally set and they were behind so they had to get to filming right away. 

As the actors got in place, Danny glanced over at Eleanor and Em. They had their heads together, whispering conspiratorially, looking intently at something on Em’s phone. When they saw him looking curious they smiled and stopped, putting their phones away, just as filming started. 

He spared one moment to hope, fervently, that they were not fueling fires—not that he for one moment imagined they would say anything publically about having seen the kiss. They were far too professional, far too sweet, and far too fond of Steve (and, he dared imagine, himself) to betray a trusted confidence. Their careers would hinge on such trust, and they knew it. But it wouldn’t surprise him if they were keeping tabs on some of the fan content. Knowing Em, she’d be the type to comment on fanart to the tone of “Steve would never wear that color suit, what kind of dresser do you think he has?” or “Danny always wears patterned socks, do you pay attention to nothing?” Eleanor, Danny could imagine making comments about Steve’s character in a story. Defending his honor.

Yeah, Danny decided, that wasn’t too difficult to imagine. And he pretty much forgot about it.

Which wasn’t hard to do, because the rush to the finish of filming was an intense one, and there were later nights than usual, and Danny hadn’t wanted to be underfoot, and had suggested he should stay away, but first Steve, then Em, then Eleanor, had protested, and finally the director had implied that things would be easier if he would stay, because Danny never got under anyone’s feet but Steve sure did if Danny wasn’t there. And he figured that was a dramatic overstatement on her part, but he willingly admitted it was difficult to not be swept up in the emotions everyone was riding high on in that final push to complete the film. Well. Filming. Obviously there would still be a lot of work to be done, a long time before the final product would be seen. Lots of time... and lots to be decided.

  
The filming of the Q Branch scenes started off smoothly. Danny suspected that was at least in part because Steve was so keen to impress Grace. Not that she had eyes for anyone other than Ben. Harry had picked her up at the end of her classes the second day of shooting, and Danny imagined he’d given her pointers on what not to do, what not to say, and what was okay to do and say, because she was perfectly behaved the entire time, even when Ben actually winked at her while he was filming. It turned out they’d chatted quite a bit as well, and she seemed to know what was happening in the scene better than Danny did—she even explained a rather complicated bit of technobable to him during one of the breaks.

There ended up being a problem with one of those techno-things, and filming was cut short, much to Grace’s disappointment, though that was fleeting once Steve suggested they head back to his place for some food and drink—if Danny didn’t mind.

Even if Danny had minded, the way Grace pinched his arm left him in little doubt that his wishes did not matter in the least, and so they bundled into Harry’s car, and ended up not much later out on the patio, glasses in hand, a selection of Danny’s signature foods warming in the oven, bowls of grapes, nuts, chocolate cluttering the patio tables. Music played, seemingly magically (Danny eventually realized it was Harry’s doing, as he recognized the Bond song playlist, and Harry was the only one amongst them cheeky enough to pull that off), and Ben stepped easily into the spotlight, sharing stories of previous technical mishaps, and insight into other Bond actor replacement transitions. Obviously Q to Q and M to M were less _high profile_ than Bond to Bond. And Ben had been, as the whole world had clearly seen, very very fond of Daniel. But Steve, he said, brought a lightness to the role that was a pleasing contrast to Dan’s moody angst. He wasn’t as flippant as Moore or Connery, but not as morose as Lazenby or Dalton. Maybe closer to Brosnan, he postulated, but fresher, more authentic.

“He means less sophisticated,” Steve joked.

“Far be it for me to presume to guess how the film will be received,” Ben teased. “But I have a good feeling about this one. And I’m not just saying that because it’s about damn time Bond kissed me.”

It had been an improv move on Steve’s part, back during the earlier, on location filming. Q had been on comms when the much anticipated kiss with another man had happened, and Ben hadn’t been either willing or able to hide the reaction he so desperately wanted to convey. The scene following, when Bond had returned to the hotel room where Q was holed up to run the op, Steve must have been channeling his own inner Bond, because he’d taken one look in those puppy dog eyes, and he’d done a very Connery-esque cuddle with Q, as with Moneypenny of old. Ben had turned his head just at the right moment, and they had nearly ended up kissing. The director had loved it, had them go again, this time kissing—just lightly, teasingly—and she hadn’t promised it would make the cut, but even if it didn’t, it would absolutely leak. Ben, Danny knew, would make sure of it.

Steve wound up making everyone crash at his place that night. Between the four guest suites, there were more than enough beds, as Danny’s sizable room had its own sleeper sofa, and Grace had come prepared to stay over if filming went late.

Once Grace had sent all her friends a very sweet photo of Ben kissing her on the cheek, the lights of London laid out behind them, they settled in for some precious father-daughter catching up. There were always things which didn’t get told over the phone. Like a couple new European holiday spots that were trending on Instagram that Grace hoped they could add to their summertime, before-uni road trip. Or that mom was seeing someone new, and Grace didn't hate him for once. Or that Harry had been flirting with one of the script editors and not entirely because he was hoping for more scenes. (Danny was pretty sure she was mainly responsible for franchise integrity anyway.) Or that Steve was even sweeter in person than over text, and _I really like this one, dad, please don’t mess it up_.

“What’s he doing after filming ends?” She asked, softening when Danny’s face must have shown his uncertainty at her pleading. 

He shrugged. “We haven’t talked about it,” he admitted. “We only just kissed for the—well, not first obviously, but first new time. Just the other day. We haven’t... it hasn’t come up.”

She frowned at him. 

He frowned back. “What?”

“I think it has to be you.”

He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t ask for clarification.

“To say it. That you want him to stay. He can go anywhere, but during editing they probably want him close. There will be reshoots, there always are. But I think... you have to ask him to stay.”

Danny sighed. He wanted to, but he didn’t feel, somehow, that it was his place.

His daughter knew him well enough to guess that.

“Dad. The thing is, it’s complicated because he’s probably thinking of it like he’s your boss. He still thinks... he won’t push.” She sighed, and fidgeted a bit. Seemed to resolve herself, steel her nerves. “Okay, I can’t believe I’m asking this, but you would ask me, so.... Who made the first move? With the kiss?”

Danny was less surprised than maybe he should have been, that she would turn those conversations back on him. Honestly, though, it made him proud. He thought about it. “He said something about asking to kiss me, if we weren’t on set... no one was looking, so I moved closer, then so did he....”

“Okay, so he said it, but you moved first.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Ugh, Danno. Okay. He may dare say it, and move if you do. But you know he’s gotta be thinking he has to be careful because consent is still tricky between you right now.” She paused, then huffed out an amused breath. “Uhh, especially since he’s playing James Bond. You know, the guy who historically has had zero sense of the concept? Steve’s aware of that. You know that from my first conversation with him....”

Danny blinked as that hit him, because she had a point, and it’s not like he hadn’t thought of it. He just had probably been figuring it would be Steve who would move past it. But maybe that was a mistake. “Yeah, you’re right, I know, you’re right.” He took a deep breath, huffed it out. “God. My daughter’s now lecturing me about consent.”

“Hey, you taught me well.”

“Did I? I hope I did. I tried.”

“Okay that makes it sound like you think you’re done. Just because I’m going to uni doesn’t mean you’re not still my dad.” She smiled warmly at him, aware, no doubt, of his worries. “You can visit you know. Brighton’s a really cool place. You’ll love it. Loads of great restaurants... really fabulous social scene, very LGBTQ friendly... and there’s a great beach.”

Danny laughed. British beaches were fun in their own way, but nothing like the Jersey shore. Or Waikiki. But, maybe Steve would enjoy it anyway. Danny thought he’d very much like to see Steve on a beach....

He smiled back at Grace, more reassured than he would have admitted, to hear she wanted him to visit. “Good. I look forward to it. But first, we have a trip to plan.”

Danny must have been distracted, though, by Grace’s description of Brighton, because he was pretty sure he otherwise would _not_ have agreed to go hiking in Switzerland. No matter how amazing the views. Although driving on Swiss roads would no doubt be its own reward. And maybe he could fit in some cheese tasting. And chocolate tasting. You know, for the sake of his career. 

  
Breakfast the next morning was nothing short of hilarious. Grace and Ben decided they needed to, absolutely had to, make pancakes—not British pancakes, actual American pancakes. Steve still insisted on eggs (they had a long day of filming ahead of them after all), and Em gave Danny the googley eyes till he agreed to make smoothies. 

Fortunately, the kitchen was large enough to accommodate that much activity, and the dining room had yet to be used as such, but Harry managed to find placemats and napkins and a set of china Danny hadn’t even known existed, and with Eleanor’s natural wrangling skills, they ended up with a rather marvelous breakfast feast, which of course left none of them time to shower and get ready, but they all agreed it was worth it. Besides. Ben and Steve could get ready at the studio, and really that was all that mattered. Ben’s Q look was still very bed-heady, and Bond was his customary beat-up-after-an-op self in the scenes for the day, so they probably looked just about right anyway. 

  
It wasn’t until several days later, the Q Branch scenes done and behind them, that Steve and Danny really even had a chance to catch up. Danny’d been thinking, in his more-than-accustomed time alone, about what Grace had said. About consent, about Brighton, about still being her dad. 

“Come with me to Brighton?” He asked, late one night. They were half-dozing on the sofa, the remnants of a rare and celebratory pizza on the table in front of them, imported American beers warming in their hands. 

“Hmm?” Steve murmured, having no doubt been nearly asleep. He had to have been exhausted. He’d barely slept in days. 

“Brighton. Grace is going for uni in the fall, I want to scope it out before then. You have a break before you need to be back for post-production dubbing, right? Come with me.”

He was avoiding saying anything about it being public, about being seen “on holiday” together (especially there, at the seaside), and how it would look, what implications there might be. But his meaning hung heavy in his words. 

Steve grinned. Slowly. Spreading like treacle being added to the batter for a steamed pudding. 

“Yeah?”

Danny tilted his head to the side. “Why not. You only live twice.”

Steve full-on laughed at that. “Okay. But only if you agree to be my date for the premiere.”

“That’s... that’s ages away.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Got other plans?”

“Uhhh. No.”

“Great. Because I’m pretty sure Eleanor and Em have already picked out our clothes.”

The memory of them conspiring together over something on Em’s phone came back to Danny, and it was his turn to laugh.  

“I don’t suppose we have any say in that?”

“Probably not. Do you mind?”

Danny thought about it, and smiled. “You know, I don’t think I do.” 

And he kissed Steve. And this time it was even better than those heated pantry kisses. Because this time, he knew full well who he was kissing. And he absolutely, definitely, didn’t mind.


	12. The Huntsman's Arms Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny and his best friend Harry run an English country inn. Steve goes there on holiday. 
> 
> (Do you need more than that? Cozy fireside chats, wet walks in the rain, sheltering in romantic ruins, tea and scones, pints in a pub... stuff like that. Oh and he’s maybe not really there just for vacation....)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh, whoopsie? Back to back “Danny lives in England with Harry” stories, but it’s kind of coincidental. (Although if I’m honest I could probably write an entire series of stories just in that theme alone.....) But. In my defense. The 007 story I wrote in September, while this one sat in my drafts for most of the summer. This one’s pretty dang self-indulgent, too.
> 
> British terminology for those who might need it: 
> 
> Rain gaiters are basically waterproof knee high boot covers that keep the rain from filling your boots. They seem ridiculous until you’ve been hiking in an English rain. Then you feel stupid for not having them.
> 
> Ribena is a black currant concentrated drink—you add it to water and it’s fabulous.
> 
> Flapjacks are the most divine little oat cakes. Like super soft squishy granola bars only so much better. 
> 
> **Content note** : Mentions of previous Danny/Harry. And hints of previous Steve/other. 
> 
> Also, the McDanno bits get a little steamy at the end. 

Danny’s busy with the accounts when Harry slinks into the office, perches on the edge of the desk, and waits—he wouldn’t call it _patiently_ , Harry’s too much a live wire for that, but he waits till Danny looks up from the books and waves for Harry to come out with whatever it is this time.

“Have you seen the guy in room 5H?”

And he should have seen that coming. Danny sighs. Not a dramatic sigh. More a light, not-again-but-really-why-am-I-even-surprised, kind of sigh. “Could you please stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” Harry feigns innocence stunningly well. Danny thinks it must be an English thing. They breed it into them or something.

So he spells it out for Harry like he really is clueless. Even though he knows it’s not true. “Picking out guests you think I would like.”

“Yes, alright, but I think I’m right this time.”

“Shut up. Unless he’s a Duke or something I’m really not interested.” And to prove his point, Danny turns back to the books.

“You,” Harry says, standing up from his place on the desk, leaning forward and kissing Danny on the cheek. “Are not that kind of guy.” And he leaves the office, but he doesn’t close the door, which means he’s not planning on staying at the front desk, and is leaving Danny on _come if the bell rings_ duty. Just to make him suffer, Danny knows.

“Yeah but I’d like to be,” he mutters towards Harry’s retreating back.

He looks down at the books again, but he knows he won’t get anywhere, not now that Harry’s planted the idea there’s someone here who might sway Danny’s fancy. Someone he might find worth sharing his body heat with during the cold, wet, English summer nights.

It’s a distracting thought, and it makes him realize he’s both cold and hungry, so he gets up, flicks the kettle on, and opens the biscuit tin to scrounge for the last crumbs of his favorites, the plain rich tea biscuits, only to find Harry’s replaced them, and there’s a whole fresh package inside.

“Oh it’s too bad we didn’t work as a couple,” Danny says to himself, as he nibbles on one while dropping a bag of his favorite Ty-phoo tea into his favorite mug, finding it briefly amusing that he has a) a favorite tea biscuit, b) a favorite brand of tea, and c) a favorite tea cup. None of which are things he would have imagined when he’d left Jersey for England those many, many years ago.

Oh, and d) that he evidently feels restocking one’s ex-boyfriend and current business partner’s favorite cookie is somehow the height of would-be romance.

Maybe he really should check out Mr Room Number 5H.

(Or maybe he should have his head examined.)

The decision’s made for him by Mr 5H himself not much later in the afternoon, when he comes in from the lovely cold summer rain, dripping wet and looking like he’s thoroughly enjoyed every drop of it.

“I’m in 5H. Could I get some more towels?” 

Danny’s moved from the office, and is standing at the front desk, having just checked in a sweet couple from Switzerland, also here on a walking holiday. They’re always on walking holidays, the guests at The Huntsman’s Arms. Though how “walking” and “holiday” ever got to be combined into one coherent concept is something Danny refuses to understand. And yet, here they all are.

But, okay. Harry might have a point, because even dripping wet (or maybe especially dripping wet), the guy is undeniably good looking. There’s an edge to him, though, that needles at Danny. Like he wants to yell at the guy for something. Dripping on the carpet, maybe. Which is absurd, as he had no way of knowing he’d get wet.

(Well, other than the fact that it’s England.)

All of which passes through Danny’s mind in just under a minute, as he bends down to grab a stack of towels to hand to the guy.

“Thanks,” 5H says as he takes them, and it’s almost as though he wants to say more. He even hesitates, but then shakes his head and carries the towels down the hall toward his room.

Danny doesn’t really mind watching him go. Cargo pants have many annoying characteristics of course, but these particular ones, while wet, do an admirable job displaying their occupant’s glutes.

Which is a thought that occupies him till the Swiss couple comes back to the desk to ask about dinner.

Harry re-emerges from wherever he’d disappeared to, probably making sure dinner was taken care of, just as Danny’s starting to fade. “You’ve been on shift since five this morning, and I’m pretty sure you’ve eaten nothing but _cookies_.” He says it teasingly, in his best-worst American accent. “Please go eat.”

Danny’s tired enough to be amused rather than irritated, but he shakes his head. “Not till after the group from Canada checks in. Then I promise, I will, and then I plan on a long tepid bath and then bed.”

(Not that he _wants_ a less than perfectly hot bath—or better yet a shower—it’s just what he’s likely to get, given the state of what might loosely be considered plumbing at his a-little-more-rustic-than-he-might-prefer cottage.) 

Harry looks like he might object, but he sighs and reaches out to rub Danny’s admittedly aching shoulders. “Mmmm. Will you take tomorrow off?”

“Babe, you’re really not responsible for my health and happiness, you know.”

“Oh, really? Than who is? Because it’s certainly not you, my dear.” Harry pulls him in for another kiss on the cheek, warm arms wrapping around him, and whispers: “The world won’t end if you take a single day off,” before patting him on the ass, and shoving him in the direction of the dining room. “I’ll take care of Canada. You make sure dinner goes smoothly, which you can do while sitting down and eating, please. The sticky toffee pudding is absolute perfection tonight.”

“It always is,” Danny replies with a proud tilt of his head, but then his stomach growls and he gives in and heads off to the dining room, unable to deny a nice bowl of beef and Guinness stew really wouldn’t go wrong, and he’s just about resolved himself to an early evening after that when he practically collides with the no-longer-wet-but-still-cargo-clad (and okay, okay, maybe even more good looking when dry) occupant of room 5H, who brightens visibly upon turning around and seeing who he nearly backed into.

“Hey,” he drawls, tone all warm and smiley, as though he’s genuinely glad it was Danny he almost knocked over.

Danny stammers vaguely in response, grunts of acknowledgement more than actual words. When he manages nothing helpfully coherent, 5H tries again.

“You, ah... you heading to dinner?” 

Danny nods, mutters something about the sticky toffee pudding, which draws a laugh from the guy and leaves Danny thinking he wouldn’t mind hearing that sound on a regular basis.

“Well, then lead the way,” 5H says, with a grin and a gallant gesture down the hall.

Danny’s years of experience not to mention his upbringing kick in after a few steps, and he asks the usual basic questions. Been to England before? (Yes, but it’s been a while.) Here for the weather? (This draws another laugh, and Danny gives himself extra points for the achievement.) Enjoying the food? (He’s sure he’s about to—which feels like a line, by the way. Maybe it is.)

When they get to the dining room, Danny expects they’ll go their separate ways, but 5H lingers awkwardly, kind of like he’d done before at the desk... as though there’s something he wants to ask and he just isn't certain enough of his footing.

And maybe it’s that, maybe it makes Danny bold, but he adds one question he wouldn’t ordinarily dare ask.

“You eating alone...?” He asks it with a lingering pause at the end, hoping the desired information will be offered. (Danny could have, of course, looked up his name on the hotel register, as Harry hadn’t provided it. But there’s something more meaningful in finding it out the old fashioned way.)

“Steve,” he offers with a grin and a return gesture that’s a question of its own.

“Danny,” he replies, and he’s pretty sure no one’s ever looked quite so pleased just to learn his name before.

“Not if you’ll join me, Danny.”

It’s suave, it’s suggestive, it’s definitely a line, but there’s a slant to it that’s closer to genuine and hopeful than it is to brash and flirtatious, and it’s that Danny responds to. He leads the way to a table near a window, with a view out to the garden and the cloud-drenched hills beyond.

“Do you hike often?” His companion asks once they’re seated, and Danny’s unfortunately too tired to filter his reaction, and his natural derision towards the activity comes out in a really elegant and sophisticated snort. Fortunately for him, this response is taken as amusing rather than offensive. He recovers, with hopefully only a light flush to his cheeks, and explains.

“We call it ‘hill walking,’ and no, it’s not really my thing.”

“Oh but you should,” comes the slightly too enthusiastic reply, just bordering on being pushy. “It’s amazing out there. Seriously spectacular.”

“A little bit wet, too,” Danny replies with a chuckle, and that earns him a warm smirk and a shrug.

Lawrence ambles over from behind the bar just then, two pints of Danny’s favorite local brew in hand, and sets one down in front of Danny, the other in front of his guest. “I thought I’d take the liberty,” he says smoothly, and Danny would bet actual money Harry put a call into the kitchen just as soon as Danny’d left the front desk. 

“Thanks, Laz,” Danny says as he departs with a wink that’s too knowing for Danny’s comfort. He turns to Steve. “If you don’t like it, we’ll get you something else.” He takes a grateful swig of the red-golden, velvety, foam-topped cream ale without waiting for Steve to pick up his glass—maybe as though to say ‘here, look it’s good’—and as the familiar taste fills his mouth and it grounds him. Reminds him there’s plenty here that _is_ his thing, even if the ubiquitous hill walking doesn’t apply.

His encouragement seems to work, and Steve takes an exploratory sip before drawing back with a pleased expression, licking the bubbles from his upper lip as he gazes assessingly at the half-opaque beverage, and ohh it gives Danny ideas that do not belong in a public dining room.

“Oh, wow, that’s really good.” He takes another sip. “It’s nothing at all like an American beer.”

“I should hope not.” Danny replies in mock disdain, and Steve chuckles.

“So, what’s your favorite dish?” He asks after a comfortable pause in which it seems as though fourteen alternate timelines play out somewhere in the fabric of time and space, at least one of them ending the way Danny’s starting to hope this one will.

“Depends what you like,” Danny evades, not wanting to influence Steve’s selection. “The cottage pie is classic, the beef stew is rich and filling, the fish and chips of course is iconic. But, honestly, everything is simple, quality, pub food. Our desserts are where we shine,” he concludes, not wanting to brag where it’s undue, but taking pride in their puddings as he always does.

“Ah, yes, the sticky something pudding?”

“Mmm, it’s not a ‘pudding’ like you’d think of pudding back home. It’s more of a warm, saucy cake. That sounds weird, but trust me, it’s amazing, especially in this weather.” He nods at the window where the steady drizzle of an English summer plays across the flower beds, roses dripping, the Queen Ann’s Lace bowed almost to the ground.

“I can’t wait to try it,” comes the wistful reply, and something in his tone leaves Danny with a barely suppressed shiver.

They both order the beef stew, and when Laz brings a basket of his mother’s famous brown bread over, Danny doesn’t resist like he usually would, favoring having food in his belly sooner than later, to combat nerves as much as drink.

Steve, who it seems to Danny probably never holds himself back from much of anything he wants, slathers a slice of the dense, sweet bread with a copious amount of soft, local butter. The sound he makes as he tastes the delectable combination does things to Danny that really shouldn’t happen at work, and the shiver is less suppressed this time, but he’s pretty confident that Steve’s too caught up in his enjoyment of the bread and butter to notice. 

Deciding he needs more fortification if he’s to survive this meal intact, Danny adds a spoonful of wildflower honey, from Laz’s own beehives, to his slice of bread. Some of it drips down his finger, and after he finishes the bread he sucks it off, catching Steve’s heavy glance land his way as he does. The _plop_ as he removes his now-clean finger from his mouth isn’t entirely unintentional, and it takes Steve a long drink of his cream ale before he’s able to continue eating.

Laz brings over two more pints after he delivers the stew, again not asking before he does, and Danny makes a note to up the young man’s pay (or punch Harry for his interference, either way). Between Laz’s bartending, gardening, and beekeeping skills, and his mother's cooking, Danny knows they’ve got a good thing going. But it’s their genuine love for what they do that makes them truly irreplaceable. And Danny’s not just saying that because he’s feeling very well-looked after tonight.

Contentment spreads through him as the meal wears on, as savory, herby beef stew over creamy mashed potatoes fades into warm, caramely, rich, golden pudding with fresh cream. Glasses of port by the fire and a few slices of cheese (in true English style) wrap up the meal, and Danny finds he’s loathe to let the evening end.

“I don’t suppose,” Steve says slowly, wiggling his boot-clad feet near the fire’s flickering flames. “I don’t suppose you’d go hiking with me tomorrow?”

And it feels like fate intervening, that in that precise instant Harry appears, almost as though he’s been eavesdropping, and, knowing Danny will say _no_ to hiking, let alone a day off (regardless of the attractiveness of the person asking) has appeared to force his hand. He perches easily on the arm of Danny’s chair with an air of possessiveness there’s no chance Steve could miss.

“Oh please take him hiking tomorrow,” Harry pleads. “I haven’t gotten him to take a day off in nearly a year.”

It takes Danny a beat too long to catch up. It’s Steve’s grin, swiftly hidden in a guilty bite of his lower lip that clues him in.

“Oh my god, you two know each other.”

“Our paths may have crossed before,” Harry offers, his customary mysteriousness intact. “I’ll tell Laz to pack you both provisions. You can take the coastal path, it’s mostly flat and won’t hurt your knee,” he adds, ruffling Danny’s hair as he does, and it adds a blush to Steve’s already guilt-tinged expression.

“His idea,” Steve offers, by way of apology once Harry’s gotten up and headed to the bar to talk with Lawrence. “He was convinced if he just introduced us....”

Danny rolls his eyes. “He was probably right. He usually is.” He stands and offers a hand to Steve to help him up. Thinking probably he’ll regret it, but knowing he’d regret it more if he refused, Danny smiles. “I’m sure I’ll regret this, but okay. I’ll go hiking with you tomorrow.”

Steve grins so hugely in response, Danny’s amused his reluctant agreement could garner such delight.

“Great, I can’t wait.”

  
Danny doesn’t expect to sleep well that night, but he does. Maybe it’s the sweetness from Steve’s eager smile, maybe it’s the prickle of anticipation for the next day, maybe it’s just something in the rain, but when he wakes he feels rested, a bit restored, and not entirely unwilling to go hiking. Which is a very odd sensation indeed.

He, fortunately, has all the correct gear, years of living with Harry having added to his wardrobe things Harry felt necessary for their country inn personas. And he feels slightly silly dressing in the appropriate manner, from hiking slacks tucked into his boots, those ridiculous leg rain jacket things covering the opening, but he knows he’ll be a grumpy old man if his feet get wet, so he swallows his vanity and does up his waterproof coat and compromises by rejecting the clear plastic map cover necklace thing with attached compass. They’re following a very well marked path that runs from the inn along the coast, to a pub (of course). Even Danny couldn’t get lost doing that.

Still, he feels a little bit like an idiot, sitting at the bar in the restaurant over tea and toast, his clothing broadcasting his anticipated activity. Of course, everyone else is clothed in a similar style—including the Swiss couple, who stop to chat briefly as they set off on their day of adventuring—so at least he blends in.

He’s not been there long when Steve shows up.

“Sorry I’m late! I gave in and tried a full English breakfast and it took me longer than usual to eat. Had to go get geared up.”

He twirls for Danny like he’s showing off that he, too, is properly attired, down to his feet. “Borrowed the gaiters from Harry. What do you think? Could I pass for English?”

Danny bites his lips together to avoid smiling too hugely, and nods in near-serious assessment. “Absolutely.”

Steve nods at Danny’s toast and tea. “Please tell me you ate more than just toast.”

“Uhhh, no?”

“Oh you have to have some protein, or you’ll fade too fast.” He gestures to Laz, looks expectantly at Danny. “How do you like your eggs?” 

He asks it easily, like it’s no big deal, but Danny stumbles over it because damn that’s an intimate question. It’s layered with insinuations of waking up together, and okay, it makes Danny’s skin tingle. 

When he doesn’t answer right away, Laz covers for him. “Scrambled unless it’s on toast,” he offers, looking to Danny for confirmation, knowing Danny doesn’t usually eat a big breakfast. Danny nods, then shrugs his acquiescence. 

“Great, two eggs scrambled please,” Steve says, and settles on the stool next to Danny.

It should be awkward—sitting here, being watched, being waited for. But somehow it’s not. Somehow it feels nice. And he feels a little bit of a jerk for it, because it’s not like Harry’s not incredibly solicitous of him, too much so at times. But maybe that’s because Harry knows him too freaking well. There are years worth of built up layers of mutual obligation and dedication between them, years of attraction turned to true affection. And it’s familiar and it’s well-worn and it’s comfortable, and it means the world to him (though he often bristles at it). But it’s different. 

Steve, on the other hand, doesn't know him well at all. Yet he’s already invested, already engaged. And that feels really damn nice. (If it makes him blush slightly maybe that’s just because he's wearing so damn much rain gear and it’s warm in the restaurant.)

Soon they’re out in the light drizzle, headed for the coast path. The trail is well-marked, well-trod. Danny’s actually done it before, this coastal path. When Harry first brought him here, when they decided to make a go of it, restoring the old family inn, try and breathe new life into the place. He hadn’t minded the walk then, if he’s honest. It had been a warm sunny day, and they’d been younger and enthusiastic. And in love.

Maybe somewhere along the line Danny’s turned a little bit into a grumpy old man, waving his rake and muttering _get off my lawn_. And maybe what’s drawing him in now is some strange breath of fresh air, blown in with this guy. There’s something about it Danny can’t quite place just yet, but it feels refreshing. Like an ocean breeze, but playful and warm. Unlike the harsh, cold damp wind which hits them as they near the sea cliffs. 

Steve’s set a pace clearly adapted to Danny being unaccustomed to doing this, and part of him wants to protest that, part of him wants to at least feel insulted. But he’s honestly appreciative. And it’s not entirely un-nice, is the thing. Not the whole “fresh air and exercise” thing, he gets enough of that walking around the hotel property every day. No, it’s something else, something slightly intangible, about being with someone, talking, taking those exploratory steps, but without the distraction of other people, without the intense focus of sitting across a table or a bar. 

Not that dinner wasn't pleasurable. Obviously it was. But the second date type stuff feels easier out here, on the move. Maybe that’s silly, but it’s how it seems to Danny as he wades through the usual “how’d you wind up in England” and assorted questions. 

Steve already knows a lot of it anyway, from Harry. So they’ve a head start, and that’s kind of nice, too. Kind of nice to not have to say _I followed my ex-wife to her home country so I could see my daughter every other weekend_. Kind of nice to not have to explain about Harry and their past and Harry’s family’s country hotel and how _no, they’re not together anymore_ , and _yes, they’re still partners in the hotel_ , and _no, really, it isn’t awkward_.

(He does wonder, just a little, how Harry explains that one.)

After they’ve run through some basic level-two getting-to-know-you questions—family stuff, hometown, favorite sports teams, the usual chatter—they fall into a companionable silence, and it occurs to Danny that Steve’s very skilled with pacing. Beyond the whole knowing-Danny’s-not-a-regular-hiker, Steve seems to know intuitively when Danny needs to go slower, and also when he can get away with speeding up. It strikes Danny as a remarkable skill, and it reminds him of something Harry sometimes talks about. So when they stop, to nibble on flapjacks and sip Ribena, he brings it up. 

“You’re really good at this. Harry’s been trying to convince me we need to hire a sort of trail guide. I keep telling him people are perfectly willing to do this on their own, why would they need someone to lead them. But I get it now. It makes it... different.”

Steve’s grinning a little _too_ hugely. Doesn’t take long for the penny to drop.

“Of course. I’m an idiot. He meant you. He wants to hire you.”

“In his defense, I’m the one who suggested it. I, uh... I run a kind of explorer adventure vacation service, and I’ve been thinking about having a base in England for a while. It’s a popular market right now, and I don’t feel comfortable planning trips from back home. Thought I may as well do it from here and make it easier on myself.” He hesitates, but then adds, “Maybe have more of a life outside work while I’m at it.”

Danny hasn’t had much need to read between lines lately, so he’s a little surprised at how easy it is, to hear what hasn’t been said. But that wasn’t very subtle. And it stirs something else in Danny’s thoughts. A project long forgotten. Or at least, long put off. 

“Mmmm,” Danny says as snippets of thoughts and bits of conversations swirl around and start to form a picture in his head. “Lemme guess,” he says, when he thinks he’s seen where Harry’s been going with this little ploy of his. “You’re handy with a hammer as well?”

Steve’s smile threatens to break into a full on Cheshire grin. “Harry might have mentioned you could be persuaded to hire me as a trail guide if I offered to help you finish restoring the cottages....”

Sometimes it feels like Harry knows Danny a little too well. The cottages had been Danny’s pet project years ago. They’d done the main one first, that was where he and Harry had lived when they were together, now it’s their most popular rental for groups like the Canadian hiking club. The others, like his, and the one Harry lives in, and Laz and his mom, are smaller, originally tenant homes for couples or small families, back when the main building of the hotel was the manor house. But there are quite a few of the cottages, sprinkled around the property, in varying states of disrepair, and they would be very popular with holidayers, there’s no doubt about that. It just hasn’t been a priority. Not when running the inn takes almost all their time as it is. And they haven’t had the skilled manpower—Harry’s good at destruction, less good at putting things back together, and Danny is frankly a disaster with Ikea furniture, let alone anything more complicated. 

He won’t deny it would feel really great to finish them all. 

“You really interested in doing that?” 

Danny watches for Steve’s reaction, thinking he’ll sense any ulterior motives, any disingenuous assertions. But his expression is so open, so unguarded, it’s somewhere between refreshing and slightly terrifying. He’s known the guy less than a day and already Danny feels as though if Steve asked, he’d trust him with his life. And the really terrifying bit is, it’s almost as though Steve knows it. 

“Yeah, actually,” he replies slowly. Carefully keeping eye contact with Danny. This matters to him, that much is very clear. “It’s a great investment for you guys, it’d pay for itself several times over. And it’s exactly the set up I need to do the kind of stuff I want to do. The perfect base for trips all around the UK, and even into Europe.” He pauses, still watching Danny intently. “I couldn’t have asked for a better situation.”

From the expression in his eyes, the fullness of his meaning is, again, difficult to miss. Danny doesn’t say anything, Steve doesn’t ask, just leaves it there. An open offer. But one they won’t discuss further. Yet.

They finish their snacks, then continue walking, mostly talking about the scenery, the local history, the geology. But Steve also knows, again intuitively, when to stay silent. And Danny’s grateful again, because it gives him time to think. And he very much needs to think.

  
They eat at a local pub, the type that serves, almost exclusively, hikers. Danny’s been before of course, all the local restaurateurs keep tabs on one another. Not from a competitive stance, but from a place of wanting to make sure the quality of food available stays at the levels the region is known for. They’re all remarkably supportive of each other. It’s one of the things Danny loves about it here. 

And it’s nice to eat out. Which seems odd for someone who eats at least one meal a day in a restaurant. But it’s nice in that _I’m not at work and I don’t have to worry how the food is_ kind of way. And also apparently in the _it’s okay if the guy I’m with evidently has no sense of personal space and wants to sit next to me in this cozy booth by the fire, rather than across from me and huh, isn’t that nice_ kind of way.

They eat pasties and chips and drink a local stout that Danny doesn’t serve, but is starting to think he might... and not just because Steve looks like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

“That happens, you know,” Danny says, entertained as Steve keeps taking sips as though to reassure himself of the flavor. “The fresh wet air makes beers taste better. It’s part of why it’s such a popular thing here.”

Steve looks at him, expression calculating, thoughtful. 

“What?” 

“There’s other stuff the fresh air makes better as well,” he says, the barest hint of amusement painting his low, deep tone, and fuck if that doesn’t go directly to Danny’s blood and make it fizz.

  
The rain is heavier on the walk home, and maybe that’s the excuse for it, but Danny pulls them into an old ruin by the side of the path. It’s known as a rendezvous of course, but there’s no one here today. Maybe there’s some ancient magic still at work, because Danny doesn’t mean for it to happen, but when Steve trips over a stray stone on the floor, and Danny catches him, it’s only two inches further for Danny to move to kiss him, and he’s wet, and he’s a tiny bit buzzed, and something in this wild setting seems to say _go for it_. So he does. 

Steve responds with relish, and _oh_ maybe it’s the rain, maybe it’s the sea air, maybe it’s something in the stones or the plants that grow amongst them, but it’s the most sparkling and ethereal and magical kiss Danny thinks he’s ever known. 

It’s not long before they’re needing to move apart—before things go too far. 

They simply breathe for a while. Catching their breaths, but more than that... coming back into their own bodies. It’s bordering on unsettling, but also exhilarating. 

“We should probably head back,” Danny says out loud while internally something screams _no, stay, keep kissing!_

“Mmm,” replies Steve, seemingly unable to form actual words. 

Danny starts to head back towards the trail, and Steve catches his hand, holding him still. “What is this place?” He asks, voice a little raw. 

“No one’s really sure,” Danny replies, looking around at the local stone, expertly but roughly hewn, held together with nothing much more than a prayer. “There are rumors, but probably it’s just some old hermit’s refuge.”

“Mmmm,” Steve replies, looking around them, but he lets Danny lead him out onto the path. 

It’s not till they’ve been walking for some time that Danny realizes they’re still holding hands. 

  
They get back to the inn at that in between official meals period when Laurence is on his break and the restaurant is deserted except for a few people lingering over their tea at tables by the windows—reading, playing cards, or simply watching the rain. Danny checks in with everyone, and then makes tea for himself and Steve, and he grabs a couple still warm scones and some fresh lemon curd, and they sit, boots off, jackets hung by the fire. 

He’s wet. He’s exhausted. He’s pretty sure he’ll be sore in the morning. But somehow it’s all worth it. Maybe not _I want to do this again soon_  worth-it. But he’s not regretting it, and that says something. Of course a huge part of that not-regret rests on the shoulders of the lax and contended man beside him, those long legs stretched out towards the fire, cup of tea resting in his lap, smug grin of I-knew-I-was-right playing across his lips.

“So, what would your chosen day-off activity be, if not a hike?”

Danny chuckles. “Harry put you up to this?”

“Maybe. But I’m curious myself. There’s not much else to do out here, if you don’t hike, and I can see that overworking yourself would be easy.”

“Maybe I like my job.”

“I love mine, but I still take time off.”

“Mmmm,” Danny muses softly. Ordinarily he’d deflect. But somehow he just doesn’t want to. “I used to cook. But that’s really not satisfying just for one. I like to read... I read a lot.” 

It’s true, he is very well read. More so than he’d ever imagined he might be. And there’s a sense of accomplishment there, he won’t deny that. Still. He feels slightly awkward, like he's admitted to stamp collecting or bird watching.

Steve _hmmms_ and sighs. “I should read more. I always mean to, but then I don’t.”

Danny’s at first amused by that, but almost right away an idea starts to blossom in his fresh-air-addled and rain-soaked brain. And he’s feeling just bold enough to actually say it.

“This might sound weird, but would you like to spend tomorrow with me, reading? I could cook, too...?”

Steve looks quizzically over at him. But then a slow, warm smile spreads across his face. “That sounds surprisingly wonderful. Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

Harry joins them just then, catching they’ve made plans but not pushing for details, simply smiling delightedly as he looks back and forth between them, entirely too happy with himself and his matchmaking skills. (On the flip side though, Harry’s tried too many times and failed, so really he’s probably entitled to feel pleased he’s finally had success.)

Danny knows he should have a good soak before dinner, and give his cottage a decent tidying before having company tomorrow, so he leaves Steve by the fire chatting with Harry—figuring they’ll enjoy a good catching up anyway—and he heads home sooner than he’d have liked, in the interest of not-regretting-it-in-the-morning. If there’s a small part of him that thinks _good to leave him wanting more_ , Danny is embarrassed to admit it even to himself. But when his place is clean and presentable, and he’s got some leftover stew in him, and he’s cozy and in bed, earlier than usual, picking up where he left off re-reading one of his favorites for the six or seventh time, he feels that satisfied buzz of anticipation for the next day—and that’s a feeling he’s not known in rather a long time. 

And damn but it feels good. 

  
If there’s one thing Danny’s little cottage is good for, it’s being cozy by the fire. He takes some time right before Steve’s due to arrive, puttering around, re-straightening then un-straightening the throw blankets, thinks about lighting candles for fucksake, and does, in the end, take a ramble around the tiny and very un-tidy but surprisingly flower-filled (thanks to Laz’s concern for his bees) garden, snipping some barely domesticated roses and some well-behaved wildflowers for the vase on the kitchen table. Not that he plans to use the table for their lunch, he typically eats on the sofa next to the fire, but you never know. Maybe they’ll feel like being civilized. (He very much hopes they don’t.)

His pantry is stocked. It’s always stocked. He never was so picky about that at home, but he learned years ago from Harry’s grandmother (who used to run the inn), to always keep your pantry perfectly stocked. _Because you just never know_.

She never specified _what_ you might not know, and they would tease her lovingly about it. But nevertheless, in deference to her as they restored her beloved inn and brought it back to thriving life, they’d been sure to always keep the pantry stocked. It soon became a habit, and proved useful on more than one occasion, so it became valuable. Now Danny gets the sense he’s found the real reason for her insistence—certainly the one she, as a true fan of a good romance, would have loved best. 

_You never know when you’ll need to cook for a hot date_.

He can almost hear her speak the words, see her eyes sparkle, as they would when she’d wink knowingly, teasingly at him. It feels like a blessing, and yeah, that matters to him. 

Steve shows up, right on time. With a basket Danny recognizes, knows will be filled with treats from the inn’s kitchen. He tries not to laugh, wonders whose idea that was—Harry’s or Laz’s. Or possibly Steve’s, but he’d wager not. He tries not to wonder what they might have gotten up to last night, Harry and Steve. Reminiscing, maybe, or comparing notes on their plans. Fortunately the company on his doorstep is mightily distracting. He’s dressed for cozy reading... jeans rather than cargos this time, topped with a well-worn and presumably well-loved plaid flannel in shades of blue that remind Danny of a stormy sea.

He shakes himself out of his overly romanticized notions with practicality to go with the baked goods. “Tea? Or coffee?” He’s already had his morning coffee of course, but he usually prefers tea while reading. Partly because it’s linked forever in his mind with long evenings spent in the hotel’s library, the one room they hadn’t had to refurbish, the one room Hazel Langford hadn’t allowed to fall into disrepair. She’d introduced Danny to the fine art of appreciating a romantic story, and the equally fine art of brewing a decent cup of tea.

So he’s prepared when Steve asks, “Teach me about tea?” 

While Danny gets the tray ready, and sets the kettle to boil, he explains the ins and outs of types of sugar, milk first or not, warming the cup or not, how long to brew, and so on. Then, after a brief tour (and he does mean brief, other than the two tiny bedrooms, there’s really only the kitchen and living area, with the table against the wall, three chairs tucked snugly around it), they select iced buns and tea cakes for a platter to keep by them, and with the tray laden with tea and goodies, make their way to the fireside. 

Danny isn’t sure which of the four seating options he expects Steve to choose. (Isn’t sure which one he _wants_ him to.)

“That’s your favorite spot,” Steve says, gesturing to what’s probably obvious, the end of the sofa closer to the kitchen. Old Jets throw pillow (long ago embroidered by his mom), faded blue knitted blanket (thanks to Nona), and the give-away, his slippers tucked under the coffee table in front of it. 

He grins. “Yep.”

And Steve, without so much as a glance at either of the two cozy arm chairs flanking the hearth, sits at the other end of the small sofa, which puts him all of six inches away from Danny. (Yes, okay, that’s the spot he was hoping he’d pick.)

Steve’s brought a book, and it’s only now that they’re sitting Danny sees what it is—one of those adventurer bio stories. The over-dramatized kind movies are based on. No doubt filled with life-endangering encounters, failures of gear, and at least one moment of “oh my god is he really going to eat _that_?”

He catches Danny no doubt scowling at it, and he chuckles. “Not your type of reading I take it?”

“No, and now I understand why you don’t read much.”

Steve sets the unopened book down. It looks like it’s never been opened, to tell the truth. “Alright, what are you reading, then?”

Danny hesitates. It’s not as though he didn’t realize this would come up, but... well. He always claims not to be afraid to say what he likes. Wants Grace raised like that. Tries to embody what he wishes to teach. So he holds out his book. It’s worn, it’s faded, it’s crumbling more than a little. The creases show his favorite passages, and those of the people who’ve read it before him. The illustration on the cover clearly states _gothic romance_. 

Very reservedly, Steve raises an eyebrow. Careful not to overreact. Weighing his response. Or so it seems to Danny. But then his face lights up, as if in recognition. 

“That’s one of the books by Harry’s nan’s best friend, right?”

“Mm-hm,” Danny replies, guessing he might have known Steve would be aware of the connection, at least know of the existence of the rather famous series of books that had, after all, been written at the hotel, so many decades ago.

“Harry always spoke very fondly of them, but I never thought... okay, this sounds dumb, but I guess I never thought about reading them.”

“Because they’re romance?” Danny tries to keep the defensiveness from his tone but he fails. 

“Well... yeah? That’s bullshit, though, isn’t it.”

“Very much so.”

Steve chuckles. “Alright then. Got another one? The first in the series, maybe?”

“Mmm,” Danny muses, hesitating. “Trust me?”

“You’re the expert.”

Danny gets up and walks the few steps to his bookcase. He doesn’t have to look for the book he wants, he knows right where it is. 

“Start here. Technically it’s the third book, but the first two are really sort of prequels. This is where she really gets good.”

Steve grins up at him kind of crookedly, and Danny narrows his eyes in response. When Steve takes the book and continues to smile, as though he’s entirely too pleased with the situation, Danny shrugs to himself and sits. He feels Steve still watching him, but he sticks his head in his book and tries to focus. After a few moments more, Steve wriggles a little in his seat, lets out a soft exhalation, and opens the book. Danny slowly recites the opening passage to himself, wonders if Steve will be as rapidly drawn in as he always is... waits for it, finds he’s holding his breath and makes himself intentionally exhale and breathe slowly in, and yep... he’s not sure what exactly it is, but he can tell, Steve’s getting sucked into the story. 

He smiles, probably a little smugly, and continues reading. 

Neither of them moves for a good long time, other than to idly sip tea or take a bite of one of the tea cakes. So Danny’s a little startled when he finds Steve’s stopped reading and is watching him. He lowers his book and turns, mirroring Steve’s slanted posture, to face him.

“These books were written here, right? At the hotel?”

Danny’s lips press together to hide his satisfaction. So Steve does know the story. Or at least part of it. “Yeah. Hazel’s childhood best friend Agnes became a well-known author, serious literature, but then she mysteriously disappeared from public life. Well, she came here, to help Hazel run the place after Harry’s grandfather died. And she wrote these stories, under the pen name Lavinia Lavish, and ultimately they became hugely popular—more popular than her ‘real’ literature had been.”

“Mmm, and they’re set here, too, right? I mean, it’s not a hotel in the book, but the setting, it’s here isn’t it?”

“I think so. Hazel never would quite admit it when I asked her, but it has to be. I’ve read them all several times, and it just _feels_ like it to me. Harry’s certain of it, and he of course knew Agnes, he practically grew up here.”

“You should use it.”

“Use what?”

“The connection. People love that sort of real-life component to a story. Make that connection for them. They’ll want some of the sweeping drama and romance in their own lives, and they’ll pay to get it—that’s half of what my career’s based on, that need for adventure, need to feel that extra level of being alive. People get it hanging off the side of a cliff or standing under a waterfall, but they also get it from a good meal, and they get it from a good story—and this,” he holds out the book. “Is a good story. They’ll eat it up.”

Danny chuckles. He’d thought the same thing, many years ago. But Hazel had said, whenever he brought it up, _Maybe when I’m gone_.

Well. She’s been gone nearly five years now. Maybe it is time. 

“The books are still in print?” Steve asks, eyeing the faded copies in their hands.

“They are,” he admits. “I’m just sentimentally attached to these old ones. But yes. They’ve never gone out of print, and that’s rare. They don’t sell a whole lot anymore, but the royalties still funded our restoration here—Agnes left everything to Hazel, for the hotel. So in a way, it’d be nice if the hotel could spark renewed interest in the books. I’d thought that years ago. But Harry hesitated to exploit the connection.”

Steve’s eyes are dancing in the firelight. He’s obviously taken with the idea. “I think we can convince him.”

Danny’s not so sure, but he admits it’s a project he’d enjoy. A sort of creative endeavor, one that would give him the kind of satisfaction he used to get from cooking—and, speaking of. There’s another project he knows he’ll enjoy, and it’s a little closer to hand. 

“I think I’ll get lunch started,” he suggests. “You can keep reading if you like, or you can join me in the kitchen...?”

Steve’s expression switches from a sort of distant thoughtful contemplation to a more physically present expectation, and he eagerly follows Danny to the tiny kitchen.

It’s not exactly set up for two large men, but it’s functional enough, and Steve mostly stays out of the way, watching with perhaps a little more than passing interest as Danny prepares and assembles two classic hand-raised meat pies. Another thing he’d learned from the lady of the manor, so to speak. And it’s that thought, more than the conversation before that stirs it, a long suspected but never fully considered possibility....

“I think the heroine of the books, Daphne, I think she’s based on Harry’s nan. I think I’ve always suspected that. Because doesn’t it seem... well, romantic? That Agnes left a prosperous career in London to help run a country hotel with her best friend?”

Steve grins. “The ruins... where we... kissed. They’re in the book.”

“Are they?”

“Mmmm.” He steps closer. Danny’s hands are still a mess from the pies, which are now in the oven. “Didn’t you know? The magical cottage where they first kiss? _With magic woven through the walls, no earthly human could hope to resist the pull to love_?”

“Okay for someone not all that in to romance, you seem to be getting on board pretty rapidly,” Danny jokes. Only it’s not really a joke, not the way Steve’s all in his personal space, not caring about the mess on Danny’s hands. He grabs a tea towel from behind him, just in time, as Steve presses him back against the low, worn wooden counter, and captures his lips in a kiss that’s just as heated, just as ethereal, just as magical as yesterday. 

After too few swirling thoughts, Steve steps back, almost as though he’s making a point, and Danny has to admit, it feels a little bit like he is. Lovers thrown together by happenstance, driven to a passionate affair, seemingly out of nothing, out of nowhere, after one rainy weekend in the misty hills by the raging sea.... Yeah, that’s sounding more than a little familiar at the moment, now you mention it....

“The pies need a good hour to bake,” he says into the stillness that’s descended in the suddenly over-heated kitchen. And he looks up at Steve, hesitating just slightly, knowing his meaning will be clearly written in his eyes. 

He’s right. And thanks to his foresight in giving the tour before, Steve knows exactly where to go. It’s only a matter of moments before they’re standing by the side of Danny’s bed, and he’s wondering if it can hold them both, but then he’s not caring at all because Steve’s lifted Danny’s shirt, the cozy knitted jumper with it, mussing his hair as he pulls it over his head, and his hands are warm, and calloused, but gentle as they run back down Danny’s sides, and pull him close for more of that amazing kissing he thinks he will never get enough of. 

Danny’s still got the tea towel in his hands, and part of him thinks he probably should have washed them first but most of him can’t really care about that now, serves Steve right if he ruins his shirt with grease stains, because Danny isn’t about to be the only one half naked in the admittedly chilly room. 

But it’s not very cold for very long because once he’s got Steve’s shirt off, Steve seems to agree with the plan of removing articles of clothing and within moments they’re tumbling, naked, onto the bed which, fortunately, seems to be up to the task. 

And it’s been a while. Okay, it’s been a really long time. But Danny’s pretty sure it’s never been like this, and maybe there is something to the stories, maybe there is something in the air in this beautiful, wild, wind-swept, rain-soaked place. Maybe it isn’t just in the books. Or maybe it’s in the books because it’s in the land. In the buildings. And maybe that’s something worth sharing. 

But for now he very much wants to keep it for himself. 

Steve’s hands explore him eagerly, greedily, almost as though he’s afraid Danny will disappear if he stops touching. For his part, Danny understands, because he can’t seem to stop smoothing his hands up and down the broad expanse of Steve’s back, following the swell of those muscles, ones he’s now imagining flexing under the strain of scaling a cliff face in the hot blazing sun, or being pelted by the downpour of a waterfall in some steamy tropical setting. Everything about this guy exudes sex appeal, strength, certainty, and some inner sense of knowing he’ll get what he wants in the end. And there’s no way Danny will deny—having that focus, that drive, that purposeful energy trained on him... well it’s the goddamn most wonderful thing he’s ever felt. 

From the sounds he makes, Steve seems to agree. 

They draw it out, almost as if by mutual agreement, not wanting this over fast, wanting to savor it. So they tease each other, pushing then pulling back, till they’re both too far on that knife’s edge of anticipation that it almost seems they’ll dissolve from it, and then with one grunt of submission, Steve takes them both in hand, and only by biting down on Danny’s lip keeps from shouting, as they both spill across his strong, capable fingers. And Danny almost wants to laugh, it’s so like a scene from one of the books, so completely over the top with sensation and passion that surely it’s all out of proportion to reality, but fuck if it doesn’t feel just exactly like that. Just like it reads in an actual romance. 

Well, except for the sticky mess between them, and the smell of just-about-to-burn pies in the oven. So, reality breaks rudely into Danny’s fantasy-that’s-surprisingly-real, and he tosses the tea towel at Steve as he pads, naked, to the kitchen to take the perfectly done pies out of the oven. And that, surely, is magic as well, because his pies never have turned out so absolutely beautifully. It’s hard not to imagine someone’s looking out for both his love life and his baking right now. 

They stay naked. Somehow clothing seems superfluous. Wrapped in thick fuzzy blankets they eat their slightly cooled pies and drink vaguely warm ale from chunky pottery mugs. And they talk. About nothing and everything. About convincing Harry that using the connection between the books and the hotel will be a tribute to the stories, not an abuse of them. Convincing him that it’s what they would have wanted, Agnes and his grandmother. For their story to be known, now that it might be appreciated for what it could have been, a romance of its own. 

They eventually fall back into reading. Still naked, resting against each other, Steve’s fingers twining through Danny’s too-long hair, stopping only to turn pages, and then resuming their task as though it’s something long-accustomed rather than newly discovered. Danny’s hand plays idly with the hairs on Steve’s leg where it squeezes against him firmly, almost as though holding him in place, saying _please be real, please don’t be a fantasy_. 

Surprisingly they last quite some time before the fact they’re naked and close takes over, and they fall to the floor and make love in earnest. In front of the fire, on soft, cozy blankets, while rain falls gently against the windows, the wind brushing the branches of nearby shrubs in a soothing thunk-thunk sound against the side of the cottage. If it reminds Danny very much of scenes from the books, well that only seems fitting. 

And they surely lose track of time, just like in the books, but it doesn’t matter because there’s evidently more than one supportive being watching over them, as a carefully prepared tray of dinner magically appears on the sheltered doorstep when it must have become evident that Steve wasn’t planning on returning to the hotel for dinner. Or to sleep. 

Sparing one moment to silently curse Harry for knowing Danny wouldn’t be interested in cooking a second meal, he finds mostly he’s grateful because more fuel means more energy and that’s something he’s finding a new appreciation for, given the presence of this wonderful and passionate man in his life... and in his bed.

Just as he’s fading off to sleep, wrapped in strong, tan, tattooed arms, he thinks how strange that Harry had known. And then he thinks maybe it’s not very strange at all. Because Steve had been drawn here himself first. And Harry had been brought up in good part by two women very invested in romance novels. And maybe there really is something to this place after all. Maybe they’re not the first to be brought together by whatever holds firm the stones, whatever persuades the flowers to bloom through the ceaseless rain. And maybe that really is something that needs to be shared, something that deserves to be celebrated. 

  
He certainly feels like celebrating it, in the morning when he’s awoken by the smell of coffee, and finds it’s coming from a mug being held out to him by an entirely naked Steve. 

“I’d joke that you’re hired, but, uhhhh....”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah that was not part of the sales pitch.”

“This won’t be... awkward?” Danny asks, as Steve settles back in bed but makes no move to cover himself. 

“Was it for you and Harry?” He asks it sincerely, but Danny thinks he already knows the answer. Because of course it wasn’t. 

“Fair point.”

Steve nods. “We’ve both mixed business with pleasure, and we’ve both come out of it okay, so I’m not worried if you’re not, and... uh....” He grins. “Harry obviously isn’t either.”

“No,” Danny admits, amusement and warmth flooding his tone. “He very clearly is not at all concerned about that, in fact I’d say quite the opposite.”

“Good, then you won’t feel obligated if I just take that coffee back so I can do this....” And he leans in, gently tugging the coffee from Danny who has only managed one sip, but he doesn’t protest, because Steve kisses him, and it’s softer and sweeter than before, but it’s coffee-tinted, and it’s filled with possibility, and it isn’t toe curling, but something warm unfurls in Danny’s belly, and he thinks that’s even better. It’s already so comfortable. It’s almost as though some part of them has known, all along, that this was coming. So it’s not an _oh, you’re new, you’re exciting_ so much as it’s an _oh, yes, I recognize this feeling, my heart already knows yours_.

And just maybe Danny recognizes the sensation because he’s read it so many times. And maybe, like a whole lot else in those books, he’d known, somehow, it was true, it _is_ true, it could be true—for him. 

The last thought he has before he lets himself be utterly swept away in Steve’s kisses is to thank Hazel and Agnes, to thank the land, to thank the stones of the buildings, for letting him be part of their legacy, for letting Steve be part of this as well. And to promise to honor that connection, to celebrate it, to make sure it is remembered, with love.


End file.
